


Finding Home

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, Broken Engagement, Canon Compliant, Gap Filler, Getting Back Together, M/M, Mental Instability, Post-Finale, Season/Series 05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2017-12-31 17:10:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 31,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1034229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Justin knows there's something seriously wrong when Brian buys the big house in the country and asks Justin to marry him.  Love shouldn't change someone beyond recognition.  Canon-based. </p><p>  <img/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Weirton, West Virginia

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, this fic isn't finished and won't be. I lost the flow. That said, I'm very proud of it, so I'm leaving it up.

On the seventeenth day of his engagement, Justin drove the Vette to Weirton, West Virginia. The moment he entered the “downtown,” he knew beyond a doubt that Brian had lost his mind. Justin parked in an abandoned lot, rested his head against the steering wheel and cried.

Apparently, the bombing had claimed another victim.

When he got a hold of himself, he drove to a more populated area where the Vette was less likely to be vandalized. It was cloudy. It’d been cloudy for days. The misty breeze was on the verge of becoming a wind. It pushed and shoved against him as he walked. His hair was wet by the time he reached the city hall.

This was his and Brian’s new home. Granted, they’d spend most of their time in Pittsburgh (which, by comparison, would feel like London or Paris), but this was where they’d come if they were out of milk or bread or something. Justin walked down street after dismal street. Every other store was vacant, and the ones that weren’t should be. An old fashioned department store with seventies-era mannequins dressed in eighties-era clothes was the only business that wasn’t a windowless bar, a storefront church, a pawn shop, a liquor store, a check-cashing place or an empty “family restaurant." Weirton was the kind of town interstates avoided. It was just a name on an exit sign. A place where people were born, lived and died young from lung cancer, liver disease or an overdose of Oxycontin. 

Justin wiped away another onslaught of tears. Had Brian even come here before he bought the house? Would it even have mattered? His mom said he’d taken a ten-minute walk-through “Britin” before he signed the sales agreement. Apparently all Brian had needed to know was that the house was huge, the acreage impressive, and the amenities sufficiently grand. And there had to be stables, of course, because that’s what Justin had said he wanted in a flippant, throw-away remark. He couldn’t even ride! Why the hell did he need a horse barn? Couldn’t Brian tell the difference between a sarcastic comment and a heart-felt desire? Was he really that dense?

Apparently so.

_You bought this? You bought this palace?_

_It’s for my prince._

What.The.Fuck?

And after all that, how could Justin say no? Brian was selling the loft; he was selling Babylon, and he’d bought a place big enough to house several generations of WASPs in their Nantucket pink shorts and polo shirts, drinking iced tea on the veranda after a tennis match – doubles, of course.

It was a trap, an expensive, lavish trap complete with a pool big enough to swim laps in. A trap set for Justin that Brian would grow to hate.

Justin looked around. Not far away loomed the angry skeleton of a once enormous steel mill now whittled down to less than a quarter of its original size. Its smoke stacks pumped out sooty clouds and an occasional burp of flame. The people who passed either didn’t look at him or looked at him with a kind of hostile curiosity. And he was wearing jeans and a tan parka for fuck sake! How less gay could he possible look? What were these people going to make of Brian with his silk shirts, Armani suits, expensive car and trendy haircut? The first smirk, the first hint of disdain, and the townsfolk would be at their door shaking pitchforks. Justin knew how to pass as straight, but Brian either didn’t know how or simply refused to (most likely the latter). He was going to get the shit kicked out of him. It was only a matter of time. The men who walked past Justin were big, burly and unemployed. Their jeans had grease on them, and their hands were rough. They wore John Deere caps and spat on the sidewalks. They looked aggrieved. They looked like they’d relish a good old fashion gay bashing just to ease the burden of their boredom.

Tears welled in Justin’s eyes again as an image appeared of Brian beaten and left for dead in the same vacant lot Justin had parked in earlier. Or worse. At least half the roads in the area must be dead ends where asphalt gave way to dirt and then ended at a campfire ring with empty beer cans strewn around, some sporting bullet holes.

Goddamn it, Brian!

Justin walked until there was no place left to walk. The houses were three stories meant to accommodate three generations back when there used to be work. Now they were chopped up into apartments. Some had lunging dogs contained by fences of dubious strength; others had dismantled cars on blocks in the back and asphalt driveways with weeds growing in the cracks. Occasionally, he passed a house with out-of-season holiday decorations in the yard or a few shrubs clinging to existence. T.V. screens flickered in the windows. Beat-up trucks drove past, and all around, steep hills rose into the tattered fog. Tears mingled with its droplets on Justin’s cheeks, not just because the man he loved had apparently gone crazy, but also from a bone-deep sadness emanating from the lives surrounding him. From the clutter of broken dreams.

When he returned to the Vette, there was a group of guys leaning against it and peering in the windows. They had short scruffy beards and wore those yellowish-colored work boots with the two-inch soles. One sucked in the last drag from his cigarette and threw the smoking butt on the ground. Justin stopped abruptly, his stomach lurching with fear. He had to take a deep, steadying breath before continuing.

As he approached, the guys slowly peeled themselves away from the Vette.

“Yours?” one of them asked. Justin could only nod in reply. He felt like he was going to faint.

“A beauty,” the guy said. “Stingray? 1971?”

Justin cleared his throat. “Uhm, yeah. I think so. It’s actually a friend’s.”

The guy reached out and caressed the Vette with a large hand, his knuckles almost as big as Ping-Pong balls.

“A real beauty,” he said again. There was longing in his voice.

Justin cursed himself for driving the Vette. He couldn’t have drawn more attention to himself if he walked down the sidewalk dressed as Elvis during his Vegas years. 

“Thanks,” Justin said. Nobody said anything more, but when Justin went to open the driver’s side door, they all circled tighter again to look at the interior.

“She’s in mint condition,” one of them said. “Shit. She probably costs more than I could make in five years.”

The others laughed their deep, rumbling man laughs. “More like a lifetime,” another said. “So, blondie, can we take ‘er for a spin?”

Justin closed his eyes. No one knew where he was. He hadn’t told anyone he was going to Weirton, West Virginia. He swallowed back a surge of nausea and opened his eyes again.

“Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to get back to Pittsburgh. People . . . uhm, there are people waiting for me.”

God, that sounded so dumb! How more obvious could he be?

The guy who’d first addressed him nodded at the others, and they backed away as though he'd just told them to. He held the door open as Justin got in the Vette, and then, resting his hand on the roof, he leaned down and looked Justin in the eyes. “Smart kid,” he said mildly. “If you was my friend and you loaned this baby to a buncha rednecks, I'd fuckin' kill you.”

He stepped back and patted the Vette fondly. “Safe trip back to the Pitts,” he said and tugged on the brim of his ratty cap in farewell.

Justin was shaking too hard to get back on the highway, so he drove the few miles to the new house where he parked in the driveway and sat for several minutes trying to keep his lunch in his stomach where it belonged.

It’d been a long time since he’d felt so terrified.

As though he could read Justin’s mind from forty miles away, Brian called. Justin took a deep breath before he answered. He didn’t want to tell Brian about his encounter; all the same, the first words out of Brian’s mouth after “hey,” were “what’s wrong?”

Justin laughed shakily. “Nothing,” he said.

“You didn’t wreck my car, did you?”

“Of course not.”

“Better not’ve. When are you coming to pick me up?”

Justin smiled. The thought of Brian waiting for him to take him home was . . . different.

“Whenever you want.”

“Well, where are you now? I can leave anytime.” 

“I’m at the art supply store,” he said. “The one by PIFA. I just got here.”

“Okay. Come get me when you’re done. Later."

“Later.”

Justin put his phone back in his pocket. How easily the lie had slipped off his tongue. Why hadn’t he just said ‘I’m at the house’? It felt wrong to be here and even more wrong to have ventured into “town.” He didn’t belong here. He didn’t _want_ to belong here. He peered out at the house. Six bedrooms. What the fuck were they going to do with six fucking bedrooms, not to mention four bathrooms, two dining rooms, maid’s quarters, a parlor and something called a “sitting room” where apparently Victorian ladies drank tea and played cards with their neighbors?

 _We’ll knock out the wall between two of the bedrooms and make it into a huge, kickass studio_ , Brian had said after they’d made love that first night (and, yes, ‘made love’ was the correct term). _Then we’ll turn the basement into a gym and that big whatever-the-hell-it-is-room into a home theater. We can turn the maid’s quarters into a separate apartment for the munchers, so we don’t have to hear them chompin' away when they bring Gus for visits, and when the munchers aren’t here, Professor and Mrs. Bruckner can play house . . ._

Justin had nodded. He was still stunned by the evening’s events. Within the space of a couple of hours, he’d become the co-owner of a country manor and the fiancé to the man who'd once been the love of his life. And then he’d been made love to by said man. There’d been tender kissing and caressing and murmured ‘I love you’s. Brian’s thrusts were deep but slow, and he’d gazed into Justin’s eyes when he came with a soft (soft!) breathy (breathy!) sound. Even when they’d had sex for the first time after the bashing, Brian had let himself go right at the end, but not that night. That night, Brian had held back until he was trembling all over.

It was wonderful . . . and disturbing.

Justin got out of the Vette and followed the slushy path to the back of the house where an enormous lawn sloped lazily down to a stream overflowing with the melting snow from the nearby hills. There was the pool and its patio. There was the horse barn. There was the tennis court. Try as he might, Justin couldn’t picture himself and Brian using any of them – well, except maybe the pool. But the stables? The tennis court? Justin had never ridden a horse in his life, and he was pretty sure Brian hadn’t either. And, yes, he could play tennis (badly), but what about Brian? Sure, Brian worked out, but did he know how to play a sport? Did he even _like_ sports? (Aside from water sports, that is, of which Brian, of course, was a huge fan.) 

God, even after all this time, there was so much they didn’t know about each other.

It’d even been weird just driving out to the new house. They’d only ever taken one “road trip” together and that was to Altoona to find a public place to fuck, which didn’t really count considering they were high and Justin was kneading Brian’s cock through his jeans the whole way there (and back). It was more foreplay than road trip. 

But the other day was different. It was still less than a week after the bombing. Brian called Justin around noon and told him he’d pick him up at three. Justin had waited in front of his building, hunched angrily inside his parka. Brian was still ordering him around like he’d always done. What did he think? Did he think that just because he’d told Justin he loved him that they were back together again? Hadn’t Justin’s “no, I won’t marry you” been a clear enough hint that nothing had changed? Justin still wanted to live on his own. He still wanted to get away from the fucking boring-as-shit club scene. He still wanted a real relationship. And Brian was still bat-shit insane. Actually, no, that wasn’t exactly true. Brian was even _more_ bat-shit insane.

Brian had shown up at exactly three. He’d gotten out of the Vette, walked around to the passenger side and opened the door for Justin to climb in.

Weird.

They hadn’t talked as they drove through downtown and got on the highway. Not long ago, Justin would’ve been thrilled by the implied surprise, but he hadn’t been that day, and the longer they drove without Brian saying anything, the more annoyed Justin grew. The quiet was oppressive. Justin turned on the radio. When they got off at Exit 5, he couldn’t stand it anymore.

_When you said there’s something you had to show me, I didn’t think it would be in West Virginia._

Brian hadn’t looked at him, and his answering smirk was only a formality.

_It’s less than a half an hour out of Pittsburgh._

Only because you drive like a maniac, Justin had almost replied but by then they were heading away from the usual highway exit fast food restaurants and cheap motels and deeper and deeper into the woods. It was only three-thirty, but the dripping fog made it seem much later. The trunks of the trees were slick and cold looking. Justin shivered involuntarily, and Brian turned up the heat. The asphalt was black with what could be a thin layer of ice. Justin gripped the door handle as the road twisted and turned ahead of them. Brian could be on anything. His eyes looked glassy, and his face was moonlight-pale. His chapped lips looked almost bloody against the pallor of his skin. His smile was strange.

Brian hadn’t been himself since the bombing. None of them were themselves, but no one showed it like Brian. Whereas the others looked stunned, Brian looked haunted.

The houses they passed grew grander and farther and farther apart. Were they going to some kind of country inn? Was Brian going to propose again in a more stereotypical setting with wine and candles and a ring? Jesus, Justin hoped not. He didn’t know if he’d have the strength or the will to reject Brian in public. He’d done that once when he’d walked out of the _Rage_ launch party with Ethan, and the memory still upset him. He didn’t want to have to do something like that again.

But then he looked at Brian’s jeans and pink shirt and knew it couldn’t possibly be true. If it was, Brian would’ve dressed to the nines and told Justin to as well. Brian didn’t do things in halves.

Justin felt queasy by the time they pulled into a driveway and Brian turned off the car. He’d always gotten car sick ever since he was a little kid. The physical queasiness mingled with psychological queasiness as Brian took him by the collar and led him to the doorstep of the grandest house they’d passed yet. His mom would know more, but from what Justin could tell it was a late Victorian era Tudor probably built by a steel mill or coal mine owner or something.

After telling Justin that they now owned this strange mansion, Brian lit a fire in the fireplace. Of all of that day’s surprises, learning that Brian knew how to light a fire was perhaps the biggest. Justin had watched him kneel on the hearth and light the kindling, his head bent, his hands sure, his neck bare and vulnerable. It was probably the savage flood of desire that’d made Justin say yes when, later, Brian asked him again to marry him. He’d never wanted Brian more in his whole life.

But now weeks had passed. Announcements had been mailed. Emmett had been hired. And Justin was back living at the loft with a man who vaguely resembled Brian. A man who held him all wet and sticky after Justin came. A man who used Justin’s favorite brand of espresso to make their lattes. A man who didn’t rag on Justin’s T.V. shows. A man who came home no later than six. A man who drank beer instead of Beam and read art magazines instead of porn. A man who couldn’t be dragged to a bar even if his life depended on it. A man who’d pushed his fancy furniture into a corner to give Justin all the room he needed to do his work. A man who kissed long and meaningfully without demanding a fuck afterwards. A man who gave backrubs without expecting a blow job in return. A man who encouraged Justin to drive the Vette. A man who came up behind him and put his arms around him and kissed the back of his neck when he got home. A man who called every day around noon to see how Justin was doing. A man who brought home flowers. A man who made love to Justin as often as he fucked him. A man who didn’t have to be coaxed and cajoled into handcuffs and a blindfold. A man who asked every time they went to bed if Justin wanted to top, and when Justin said yes, gave himself wantonly and with no reservations. A man who let Justin order any movie he wanted from Netflix. A man who did the grocery shopping and chopped the veggies – even the onions. A man who refused to even look at other men, let alone fuck them.

A man who thought he was being everything Justin had ever wanted. A man who couldn’t be more wrong.


	2. A Battle Won, A Battle Lost

“So,” Emmett asked. “How far do you think you can push him before he finally snaps and returns to being the Brian Kinney we all know and love?”

Justin didn’t turn to look at him, let alone answer. They both knew it was a rhetorical question.

“What do you think? Damask or linen for the table cloths?” 

Emmett sighed. “Well, seeing as you don’t seem to care about anything except the cost, let’s go with damask. It’s by far the more expensive of the two.”

Justin ignored the jab.

“Did you order the gardenias?”

“Oh, did I ever. Sweetie, do you and Brian want to start out your married life _completely_ bankrupt?”

This time Justin turned and scowled at him. “Brian said I could have anything I want and that money isn’t a factor.”

They were at the loft. Emmett was seated at the table with his planner, and Justin was lying on the rug surrounded by wedding magazines and registry catalogs. Emmett sighed again and got up to go to the kitchen where he retrieved a bottle of water from the fridge. When he returned, he sat down on the sofa next to Justin.

“Have you considered . . .” He paused and didn’t continue until Justin looked up at him.

“Considered what?”

Emmett took a deep breath. “Considered that maybe Brian isn’t . . .”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t . . . Honey, it’s only been a couple weeks since the bombing, and here you are buried under Martha Stewart magazines, and Brian, well, have you seen him lately?”

Justin frowned. “Of course, we met for lunch at the diner. You were there too, remember?”

“I don’t mean _seen him_ seen him; I mean seen Brian Kinney.”

Justin looked away. “What about the cake? Three tiers or four?”

Emmett stood and retrieved his jacket from the back of the sofa. “Forgot something at Deb’s,” he said. “Back in a sec.” 

Justin didn’t move until he heard the door clank shut then rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. How could he tell Em – how could he tell _anyone_ – that the only reason he was fixated on planning the wedding was that he couldn’t imagine what life was going to look like on the other side. The wedding was easy. Make it perfect. Every little detail down to the fragrance of the candles in the bathrooms (chamomile and lavender).

What wasn’t easy was knowing Brian didn’t sleep at nights; that all he did was pace and smoke and pace and smoke. What wasn’t easy was waking up to hear Brian weeping on the sofa. What wasn’t easy was catching Brian staring at himself in the bathroom mirror with a baffled expression as though he didn’t recognize the man he saw there.

What wasn’t easy was gradually realizing he might not love Brian anymore. That beyond a deep fondness, he’d ceased loving Brian months ago.

“Hey.”

Justin started. He’d been so engrossed in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard the door open and if he did, had just assumed it was Emmett. He sat up and looked at Brian.

“Hey.”

Brian hung up his coat and kicked off his shoes before going to the kitchen.

“Want anything?”

Justin scrubbed his face and rolled back onto his stomach. “No, thanks.”

Brian came over, knelt on the floor and turned Justin’s head for a soft kiss.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said.

Justin looked at the magazines spread out on the floor and flushed with embarrassment. 

“Just trying to come up with ideas,” he replied, pushing them away.

Brian lay down beside him. “Where’s Emmett? I thought he was supposed to be helping you?”

“Forgot something at Deb’s. He says he’ll be back in a little bit.”

Brian smiled. Without a hint of lasciviousness, he suggested they use his absence wisely and go to bed. He stood and reached for Justin’s hand. Justin took it because the last thing he wanted to do was keep talking.

Brian undressed them both, kissing Justin’s neck and throat and breathing “I missed you” against Justin’s ear. Even though Justin lay down on his stomach and rose to his knees in a blatant invitation to be fucked, Brian entered him carefully with a quiet groan.

“Good?” he asked.

“Faster,” Justin grunted in reply. “Harder. Fuck me.”

And Brian did, but after they came, Brian seemed unsure.

“Is that what you wanted?” he asked. “You didn't say that just because you think that’s what I want, did you?”

Justin buried his face in his pillow. “I wouldn’t have asked for it if it wasn’t what I wanted,” he said. There was unintended anger in his voice, which probably made it even more difficult for Brian to figure out if he’d fucked up in some way.

Jesus, what a fucking mess!

 

It’d been the syphilis that did it.

Brian’s news had been the nail in the coffin and his nonchalance the hammer. Whether it’d been real or feigned hadn’t mattered. Nor had it mattered that it’d been to him Brian ran when his period of forced celibacy was over.

Looking back, it’d been the beginning of the end of his love for Brian. At that point, all Justin had wanted was to extract himself without ruining any possibility of an eventual friendship. He’d wished he had the strength to just walk out, but he didn't. There’d been no yanking off the Band-Aid. His leaving had been sluggish and messy and devastating – but for the first time, Justin had suspected that it was worse for Brian than for him. Brian hadn’t only lost a lover; he’d lost a war. The war of extremes, of blacks or whites. Cities or suburbs. Promiscuity or monogamy. An open partnership or marriage. The backroom of Babylon or backyards with picket fences. Sex or cuddling. Young and beautiful or old and pathetic. The long Cold War against a bogeyman of Brian's own creation.

The whole thing was stupid and childish . . . and heartbreaking.

The sex had to be the first thing to go. It had to be. There’d been no way he could’ve borne to leave if they’d still been fucking. Sex had been the way Brian talked to him, the way he tried to communicate. When they were fucking, Justin could believe that Brian loved him, that their relationship was going somewhere. 

So the excuses had started. I’m too tired. I’m not feeling well. Not tonight. Brian wasn’t used to being rejected. It’d been agonizing to watch the confusion evolve into frustration and then hurt. The only word he’d said was “whatever,” but Justin had been able to tell Brian was wounded . . . and, yes, even frightened. _Please_ , Justin had wanted to beg. _Don’t let me go, don’t make me leave you_ , but he wasn’t going to beg. He was done begging.

As the message had gradually sunk in, Brian had started doing odd little un-Brian-like things. He’d started doing the grocery shopping once in a while. He’d started complimenting Justin’s cooking without having to be prodded. In bed, he’d started rubbing Justin’s turned back and playing with his hair. He’d stopped bringing home tricks and bitching about Justin’s clothes taking up space in the closet. He’d even (occasionally) let Justin play Gorillaz and Gnarls Barkley without mocking his choice in music.

But it’d been too late. Nothing short of “Justin, I love you. You’re the only one I want,” would’ve been enough. He’d settled for less every single fucking time. It’d been time to be a man. It’d been time to go.

The night before the ultimatum was bitterly cold. Justin had been drawing on the computer when Brian came home from Kinnetik pink-cheeked; his hands, when he slipped them under Justin’s shirt, were freezing. Justin had had to bite his cheek to keep from squirming – an event that would’ve inevitably led to Brian trying to get him into bed.

 _Coming with me tonight or are you planning to stay here sulking?_ Brian had asked as he’d unwound his scarf and pulled off his coat. _You’re starting to get as boring as Mikey_.

Ordinarily, Brian’s words would’ve scared the shit out of Justin and sent him sprinting for the closet and his club clothes, but that night, Justin had surprised himself by being relieved. Brian had started staying home now and then; that night Justin had needed him to be out drinking and dancing and fucking. Brian sitting on the couch in jeans and a t-shirt with his bare feet on the coffee table would’ve made Justin cry, and he’d rather be damned than cry another tear in front of Brian.

Instead, he’d just shrugged. _Sorry. Need to work on_ Rage _and then I’m going out with Daphne. You go, though. Get your dick sucked. Have fun_. He hadn’t been angry; he’d just been truthful – well _half_ truthful. He really had needed to work on _Rage_ , but he was definitely _not_ going out with Daphne. She’d been haranguing him about “stupid choices” and “you’ll regret leaving him for the rest of your life.”

Justin had watched Brian’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed. He was chewing on his upper lip, clearly flipping through his mental dictionary to find the perfect words to express his feigned insouciance. Justin had waited with bated breath, curious to see if Brian was capable of anything but disinterested sarcasm.

But Brian hadn’t even bothered to reply. He’d simply walked to the bedroom and started trying on a million and one black shirts.

 _Hot or not?_ he asked. Justin hadn’t even looked at him; instead he’d kept his eyes glued to the computer screen.

 _It’s hot_.

 _Now that’s what I call resounding approval_.

Jesus Christ. Just go, Justin had thought. He wasn’t even going to respond, and he probably shouldn’t have. Passive aggressiveness was not the high road. But he’d been unable to stop himself. At least it was better than arguing. If they’d actually argued, Brian might’ve stayed, and Justin didn’t want him to. Not that night.

 _By the way,_ he’d said, _we sold every last copy of the marriage issue. And we got orders for over 300 more_.

 _If not having any balls is what it takes to be a gay superhero these days, I’d warn Rage to get the hell out of Gayopolis_.

Justin had smiled humorlessly. Ah, yes. Subtext. What would they have done without it all these years? Probably never talked at all.

 _You know, if you didn’t stay out all night_ fucking _. . . ._ Justin had spat back _. . . . you wouldn’t be so cranky_. He hadn’t had to turn; the sound of shirts being thrown on the bed had told him Brian was still trying to find the perfect one.

_Who said I was fucking?_

Justin had rolled his eyes. _You?_ he’d said incredulously. Brian had come home especially late the night before. _I’m sure there must’ve been someone_.

 _Somebody else got him,_ Brian had said darkly.

 _Finally. Some competition_.

Brian hadn’t replied. The arrow must’ve struck the bull’s eye. Justin wished he could’ve felt some pleasure in the realization. 

_I don’t think you get it,_ Brian had said after a moment.

 _What, that someone rejected you?_ He hadn’t been able to help it. He hadn’t wanted to, but he’d gotten angry. Again. Besides the groveling, it was the anger he’d miss the least. _Got the prime piece of meat? It happens to everyone_.

 _One little gesture. Easily overlooked_. Brian had sounded dazed, more like he was talking to himself than to Justin. He’d sighed loudly. Justin still hadn’t turned to look at him.

 _But the meaning is clear,_ Brian had continued. _It’s started. It’s begun_. He’d sounded like he was going to war, not to Babylon. He’d yanked off yet another shirt and thrown it on the bed. Justin had listened to the clatter of clothes hangers, feeling like it was he whom Brian had to vanquish, not some stupid trick.

Brian had cleared his throat. Justin had known what that meant. He was shaking off any other emotion than the determination to win at all costs . . . whatever winning might mean.

 _How ‘bout this one?_ he’d asked.

Again, Justin hadn’t turned to look. Instead he’d just sighed. _You know, when I was in L.A.,_ he’d said, _fucking around, it was fun and all. But when I came back here, and you said the offer still stands and to put my stuff in the drawer . . ._ He’d laughed a silly-me laugh. _. . . I was hoping it meant we were finally going to be a real couple_.

When Brian hadn’t responded, he’d thrown the hand grenade. _Like Michael and Ben. That one day we might have the things they have. A house . . . maybe even a family_.

Brian had said nothing for a moment and then . . .

 _How’s this?_ His voice had been as cold and as final as the dropped blade of a guillotine.

And that’s when Justin had felt it. The knowledge that the time had finally come. The time to kick dirt on any embers that might still be burning.

 _Hot,_ Brian had told his reflection seductively. 

And then he’d left. Without another word.

 _Good-bye,_ Justin had whispered when the door clanged shut. _Good-bye, Brian Kinney_.

That had all taken place just a couple months ago. Now they were engaged to be married. Now Babylon was a burned-out shell, the loft was on the market, Justin was waist-deep in planning The Perfect Wedding, and Brian was . . . Brian was busy expunging everything he’d ever been or wanted to be.

And for nothing. His body was back with Brian, but his heart was still in that grungy little studio with its treacherous space heater and paint cans half-full of rainbows.


	3. A Life of Shadows and Ghosts

The echoes of his footsteps flung themselves around like pissed-off spirits awakened from their naps. They grumbled past him as he walked through the empty rooms of the empty house. He’d been there for more than an hour trying to convince himself that he didn’t hate it.

It was dark; that was the biggest problem. All the downstairs rooms had black walnut paneling, and the outside shrubs grew too close in places, permitting only a few dust-filled rays to slip through their foliage. Sure, the shrubs could be trimmed or torn out, but the windows were narrow and multi-paned so it wouldn’t help much. Plus most of the sunlight was from the north and south. Yes, the rooms would seem cozy when it was dark outside and they were lit by firelight and the soft glow of reading lamps, but the days would pass in gloomy, nineteenth-century shadow.

Upstairs was slightly better, but the frontage was still mostly north/south, so there’d be no direct sunlight morning or evening. As they were downstairs, the windows were narrow and old fashion looking. The walls in all the upstairs rooms were decorated with walnut wainscoting, not full panels, which meant they were brighter than the rooms downstairs, but it all looked like something out of a musty old book of photographs you’d find in the archives of an historical society. Not that alterations couldn’t be made, but it’d be so much work. He felt exhausted just thinking about it, and if the loft sold quickly, they’d have to move in immediately before any substantial renovations could begin.

What had Brian been thinking? Was it just the fucking stables? Surely if Brian had just been fixated on buying a big, huge house, he could’ve found one closer to the city, something more modern, something more _them_. But it’d been Justin’s throw-away remark that’d guided Brian’s choice and probably narrowed it down to just a couple options – if there even _were_ options. How many mansions with a horse barn within commuting distance of Pittsburgh could there be – let alone for sale in February?

Okay, yes. Stables would be nice in a parallel existence. Before his grandfather had died and his grandmother moved to a condo, his grandparents had owned several acres in Connecticut. He’d loved to visit. Some of his fondest memories had their roots in the woods and fields surrounding the big, rambling farmhouse, but he’d never even ridden a horse let alone groomed and cared for one. His mom had been terrified he’d get hurt, so the closest he’d ever come to the horse his grandparents stabled as a favor for a neighbor was the porch overlooking the paddock. So, yeah, maybe part of him had once dreamed of farmhouses and stables, but then he’d met Brian and turned into a big queer. A country life was no longer appealing in the same way it had been. Now he craved the city. The bigger and noisier and grittier the better. Why couldn’t Brian have bought a loft in Soho instead of an old robber baron's mansion in West Virginia? Or, if they stayed in Pittsburgh, why not a downtown apartment in one of the new buildings that’d been built in the last couple years? Why, why, _why_ this place?

After looking despairingly at the small, claw-footed tubs in the glaring white-tiled bathrooms, he walked back downstairs and out onto the rear veranda. The view there was indeed pretty; there was no denying that. West Virginia’s signature steep-sloped hills bounded toward a hidden horizon. Marble steps wound their way down to the enormous pool with its fussy gazebo tangled in what were probably wisteria vines. There was even a fucking replica of Venus on her half shell modestly covering her crotch with a marble hand. Nearby was the tennis court and down the hill, on the edge of the woods, was the fucking horse barn. 

He sat down on the top step of the veranda and stared unseeingly into the distance. How was it that he could feel so numb . . . and so alone? Hadn’t Brian given him everything he’d ever wanted? Everything he’d _told_ Brian he wanted? 

“What better place to raise a family?” Brian had said as they were getting dressed after making love in front of the fireplace. “And Gus’ll love it too.”

Justin had frozen in the middle of pulling on his jeans as the memory had flooded over him – his own words come back to haunt him:

 _You know, when I was in L.A., fucking around, it was fun and all. But when I came back here, and you said the offer still stands and to put my stuff in the drawer, I was hoping it meant we were finally going to be a real couple . . . like Michael and Ben. That one day we might have the things they have. A house . . . maybe even a family_.

Even though his heart rate had quickened, his blood had turned cold. He hadn’t thought that Brian was even listening that night let alone memorizing every word.

He’d wanted to cry. He’d wanted to grab Brian and shake him. Couldn’t Brian _see_ what’d been going on back then? Couldn’t he see that all Justin wanted was some sort of assurance that they were moving toward something, that things wouldn’t _always_ remain as they were with him living out of a fucking drawer in Brian’s place and wishing that Brian would stop acting like, as Michael had so aptly put it, an aging club boy – at least not every fucking night? Did Brian take things to the extreme because he was an idiot? Or was it just another way he manipulated people – Justin above all others?

Or had Brian simply lost it after the bombing?

Last night, Brian had been inconsolable to the point where Justin almost called Michael for help. Later he’d blamed it on being tired, but that was bullshit. Brian had never knowingly cried in Justin’s presence, let alone inconsolably. But last night, he’d sobbed like someone had died and he was kneeling at a graveside. When Justin had tried to tease out the reason, Brian seemed unable to string words together. All he kept saying over and over was “I’m so afraid,” but when Justin had tried to get him to reveal of what, Brian clammed up.

It could be any number of things, some of them even phantoms of Brian’s own creation. If Justin had learned anything from his years by Brian’s side, he’d learned that Brian was acutely sensitive, arguably _too_ sensitive. Wounds healed slowly, if at all. Memories cascaded through the subterranean canyons of his mind. Unconfirmed intuitions itched at his consciousness like drying scabs. Necessary questions went unasked, and essential declarations went unspoken. Regrets masqueraded as indifference, and apologies were swallowed like bitter pills.

A crow cawed. Justin looked up to watch it wheeling lazily in the fading light. Suddenly he realized he was cold. Who knows how long he’d been sitting there? He wondered fleetingly if Brian ever came there too, and if he did, what he was thinking. Was he imagining a house overflowing with friends and family and all their sundry children? Was that some heretofore unacknowledged dream Brian had always had? Or was it something he thought Justin wanted?

_I would give him anything, I would do anything . . . I’d be anything . . . to make him happy._

A light snow began to fall. Justin stood and brushed off his jeans. Mere months ago, Brian wouldn’t even agree to calling their whatever-the-hell-it-was a “relationship” even though he knew it would make Justin happy if he did. He was even willing to let Justin walk out the door rather than give a fucking fraction of an inch, and now he’d give Justin _anything_ , do _anything_ . . . and, Jesus, _be anything_ to make him happy??

Even though he hadn’t even bothered to ask what that might be?!

Clearly if he had, he would’ve been surprised by the answer. All Justin had wanted was a sign that maybe, someday, they’d be real partners . . . even a family, if you will, whether or not they had children. It didn’t all have to happen overnight. A first step might’ve been finding a place _together_ so Justin didn’t have to feel like he always needed to ask permission for everything because they were in Brian’s personal space. And Jesus fucking Christ! That place needn’t be a fucking country estate! It could’ve been the loft downstairs that’d been for sale! The only thing that mattered is that they made the decision _together_. That’d been the important thing! Yet even now Brian was doing everything unilaterally. If he’d asked Justin if he wanted “Britin,” Justin would’ve said “hell, no!” He simply couldn’t picture the two of them dancing with echoes in walnut-paneled rooms under century-old chandeliers and the watchful eyes of ghosts. 

 

“How come you didn't come get me? I had to get a ride home with Theodore, and he won’t blow me in the parking garage. Thank God.”

Justin laughed despite his gloomy mood.

“Sorry. Lost track of time.” He went to the bedroom to change into dry clothes, and all the way he could feel Brian’s eyes on him. But the obvious next question (where were you?) never came.

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Brian said from the kitchen. “I thought we might go out to the house and start coming up with some renovation ideas – that is if you can tear yourself away from the Williams-Sonoma wedding registry catalog for a couple hours.”

Was that a jab? Jesus! Justin couldn’t even tell anymore!

He came down the stairs pulling on his favorite club shirt. He walked up to Brain and put his arms around him.

“Let’s go out,” he said.

Brian raised an eyebrow. “Where would we go?” he asked.

“Anywhere.”

Brian pulled away, but slowly, careful to show his reluctance to leave Justin’s embrace.

“I . . . why?”

“Because it’s fun,” Justin replied in his “duh” voice.

Brian didn’t say anything. He just looked at Justin for a long, silent moment.

“I don’t feel like it,” he said at last. “I’ve had a frustrating day. Can’t we stay in? If you’re sick of cooking I can order Chinese.”

Now it was Justin who didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Are you ever going to want to go out again?” he asked eventually.

Brian shrugged and turned away. “I don’t know,” he replied. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”

That was clear, Justin thought. What exactly _had_ Brian been thinking about? He sighed and went back upstairs to change into his lounge-around clothes. When he came back down, he made a beeline for his stack of magazines bristling with sticky notes.

“I got a call from that woman at Fallingwater this afternoon,” Brian said after hanging up the phone. Jesus, he hadn’t even asked Justin what he wanted to order! Was ‘already knowing the answer’ supposed to be romantic? Ethan used to do that. At first it seemed sweet, but then it just started to bug the shit out of him.

“Yeah? I hope she isn’t insisting we use the barn space. There’s no heat. We’ll freeze our asses off.”

“There, there, Sunshine,” Brian replied. He came over and sat on the sofa. “We can’t have our nearest and dearest freezing to death before we say 'I do.' No, she was just confirming that we wanted the banquet room.”

“And you told her ‘yes.’”

“Of course I did.”

Brian leaned down and picked up a copy of _New York Bride_.

“Christ, all these dresses look alike,” he mused. “Who’re these designers hiring to do their ads? They suck. So, have you picked which one you want?”

Justin smacked his knee with Martha Stewart. “Asshole,” he said. When things were like this – the two of them bantering back and forth – it felt like old times. The _good_ old times.

Brian swiped the magazine out of Justin’s hand. “Hey, isn’t she supposed to be in jail or something?”

Out of the blue, Justin felt a stab of love so powerful that before he could tell himself all the reasons he shouldn’t, he was setting aside Brian’s beer and tugging him down on the floor.

They got undressed in record time, and then Brian barely got a condom on before he slid inside Justin’s body. He’d been thrusting between Justin's legs, the head of his cock catching tantalizingly on Justin’s hole.

“Wanna fuck you raw,” he groaned, breaching Justin’s opening before yanking his hips back over and over until Justin was a sloppy mess of desperation. _Finally_ Brian reached for the condoms stashed under the sofa cushion and ripped open the packet with his teeth. He barely had it on and barely started to thrust when he came. He reached for the amyl nitrite stashed under the same cushion, did a bump and started thrusting again. By the time Justin climaxed, Brian had come three times. Not a record, but incredibly, mind-blowingly hot nonetheless.

“I can’t wait till we’re married and can bareback,” Brian said when he caught his breath. “It’s been over two weeks since I fucked another guy. By our wedding night, I’ll have been tested and cleared for action. I’m going to come inside you so many times your ass won’t be able to hold it all. Isn’t that what the newly wedded couple is supposed to do? Stain the bed sheets so everyone knows the marriage has been consummated?”

He gave Justin a peck on the cheek and sat up. Semen spilled everywhere when he pulled off the condom. Justin continued lying on the floor, gazing up at Brian’s flushed face.

 _He’s beautiful_ Ethan had once said in a moment of surprising candor.

And he was. Still is. So why did Justin want to run away screaming? To be fucked raw by Brian had once been his greatest dream. Now it just meant that Brian viewed their marriage as an unspoken, non-negotiated agreement that they’d be monogamous. Justin had long ago given up the hope of, let alone even the desire for, monogamy with Brian. It was unrealistic. It was just _wrong_. When he’d told Brian he wanted a “real relationship,” he hadn’t been thinking of things in terms of monogamy. It was Brian alone who’d made that leap.

But he didn’t say anything. He merely reached up and pulled Brian down into another dick-stiffening kiss, a kiss that went on and on until the buzzer rang.


	4. He's Only Brian

Breaking up with Brian and moving out of the loft was one of the best things he'd ever done for himself. Not only had he gained his personal freedom (which he instantly found intoxicating), he’d finally been able to admit to himself that he was sick to death of _Rage_. The comic was associated with too many bad memories, from the shelved movie to the shameless attempt to piss off Brian with the marriage issue. He’d outgrown _Rage_ just as he’d outgrown his childish infatuation with Brian.

It was time to move on but to what? Drawing and animation were all he’d ever done or even been interested in. One doesn’t just change artistic direction overnight, especially when one had already achieved some degree of visibility and success. What was he going to do? Installation art? Sculpture? Painting? He hadn’t taken classes on any of those mediums at PIFA. He didn’t even particularly like Abstract Expressionism let alone Post-Modern Deconstructivism; it just seemed pretentious and deliberately obtuse.

Also installation, sculpture and painting were all as expensive as hell. Yes, he had money saved up from _Rage_ , but he wanted to use it to pay back Brian. He was never going to be truly free and independent while he was still in debt to his ex. And he was done working at the diner; that world was yet another thing he’d outgrown. Plus, he didn’t want to see Brian all the time. They’d be friends someday only if they didn’t weekly cross paths and snark at each other.

He had several long conversations with Lindsay, and ultimately it was she who’d made the initial investment in what she assured him would one day be a brilliant career. She suggested he at least give painting a try and then go from there. She bought him canvasses and paints and supplies and helped him arrange things in his little studio-slash-apartment so he could take advantage of what little light there was.

It took him days to work up the courage to mar the clean slate of, not only the canvasses, but his new life, and he winced when he saw what he’d done. Nothing came to him, but he’d made another stroke anyway and then another. Then he changed colors. Though not inspiring, it was fun to make a mess for the first time in his life without worrying about pissing off whoever it was he was living with at the time. Maybe that was what post-modern art was? The freedom to make a mess – to smear and splatter gleefully. You can’t do that with drawing, which is precise and contained and meant to illustrate or reflect reality.

And when you aren’t feeling particularly gleeful – like, say, when you hear that your ex is fucking everyone under the sun as part of a ridiculous competition of some kind – you can fling and smear and splatter until the pain goes away. You can make ugly colors to reflect your ugly emotions. Bright singeing colors to burn away lingering regrets. Spirals to flush away sour memories. You can roll up your sleeves and ruin your shirts. You can get paint in your hair because you don’t give a shit any longer if an over-the-hill club boy will deign to fuck you.

In five days, he’d created five “paintings.” Were they any good? Who the fuck knew, but it’d been cathartic to make them, and that was all that really mattered. For good measure, he captured one of the many feral cats living in the basement of his shitty building and let it walk all over one of the canvasses that was still wet. Take that, Brian, you asshole. Look, I have a fucking cat! With you I couldn’t even have a goldfish!

Lindsay stopped by and raved about them. The use of color was so dynamic! The footprints so reminiscent of Van Gogh's "Starry Night"! God, you’d think he was headed for an exhibit at the MoMA. She didn’t have to twist his arm to persuade him to take part in a new artists exhibit at her gallery. But when he saw his “paintings” hung, all he saw was his petty emotions exposed for everyone to see – and see through. He wasn’t an artist; he was just a kid pissed off at his ex-boyfriend. How profound.

“You know,” Lindsay had said when she came up behind him and put her arms around him. “Every great artist has at least one major work that derived from anger at a lover. You’re part of a great tradition.”

He’d turned to say something, but then Brian walked through door.

“Don’t be too hard on him, Justin,” Lindsay whispered before she drifted away. “He’s only Brian.”

 _He’s only Brian_. The three words felt like a revelation. Later when Brian asked if his good opinion of Justin’s work would make Justin like it more, Justin said “no” and, for the first time, meant it.


	5. When We Fucking Hang Ourselves

God knows the first couple weeks were fucking _amazing_! He’d felt as though he’d been swallowed by a dream, devoured by delirious happiness and chewed up by sheer awe. He and Brian were getting married! They owned a mansion! Fallingwater had been booked! Beautiful (expensive) announcements had been mailed! Friends and family had showered them with congratulations (and unsolicited advice)! Dozens of blooms from an endangered species of flower had been ordered from China and paid for in cash! And Gus had given them a card with a drawing of one brown-haired stick figure and one smaller, yellow-haired stick figure holding hands under a rainbow with the words “I love you, Daddy and Justin,” written from right to left.

Both of them had been dazed and intoxicated with possibilities that’d never existed before. Grinning, teasing, laughing, fucking. Brian brought home a zillion year-old Bonsai tree that they would surely, inadvertently, but inevitably, kill. Justin gave Brian a love bite that he didn’t try to conceal (“Fuck ‘em”). They rolled around on the rug, tickling each other breathless and writing mocking endearments with purple Sharpies on the soles of each other’s feet. They cuddled well past the morning alarm and bitched playfully over who should get up first to make the coffee. Brian had even stopped at McDonald’s one night, without any wheedling from Justin, where they ate Big Macs and fries in the Vette – after seven, nonetheless! In other words, they’d been their old selves, only better. _Much_ better. For a brief time, Justin had never been happier. The months of bitterness and strife were forgotten as though they’d never existed.

On the week’s anniversary of the bombing, they’d stayed in bed all day sleeping and making love face-to-face, holding each other tightly when they came amidst murmured assurances of devotion. Neither of them said anything. Justin had wanted to, more for Brian’s sake than his, but Brian silenced him with a kiss every time he tried to broach the subject.

It wasn’t natural. Justin had known it even then. He’d just figured it was only a matter of time, but then another anniversary passed. And now the third was rapidly approaching. Memorial services were still being held – services that only Justin attended. Brian always said things were too busy at Kinnetik, that he had to work. Even on Sundays and Saturdays (even though Ted was always present). Extravagant gift baskets were delivered to those still in the hospital, but not once did Brian visit anyone, no matter how serious their injuries or how long their stays. Not even Michael. Especially not Michael.

As hard as he tried not to, Justin couldn’t help comparing Brian’s behavior to the time _he’d_ spent weeks in the hospital and Brian hadn't visited him. Back then, Justin had interpreted Brian’s absence as guilt. Was that what was going on this time too? Did Brian somehow feel guilty about the bombing? If he did, he was being ridiculous – and narcissistic. He hadn’t even been there. Regardless, feeling guilty was a lousy reason not to visit your best friend who’d barely survived a horrendous hate crime.

Everyone else had changed in so many ways over the years, but not Brian – at least not until he had some kind of “awakening,” after which he’d changed every fucking thing about himself literally overnight! When the fairytale giddiness started to fade back to reality, Justin began to see just how _un_ changed Brian _really_ was. At least in all the ways that mattered. Brian was still doing _exactly_ what he wanted even though what he wanted had changed.

 

And then there was Lindsay.

Justin knew she was talking to both him and Brian, but neither of them revealed to the other the substance of those discussions. With Justin, she spoke of art and opportunities and success (especially after a favorable review of his paintings was written by a respected critic and published in a respected magazine featuring new and upcoming artists). She enthused over his latest work and talked about innate talent and exciting possibilities. She never spoke of Brian unless Justin reminded her that Brian was part of the picture, and when he did, her remarks were tinged with an airy ambivalence. Nothing more than a frown and a nod of acknowledgement. 

He couldn’t tell what she saying – or not saying – about the marriage. He couldn’t tell if she was trying to protect one of them, and if so, which one. She couldn’t have both of their best interests at heart, could she? Her every insinuation nudged Justin in the direction of leaving Pittsburgh. Of leaving Brian. Did she sense Brian was unhappy in some way? Or was she convinced it was he, Justin, who was making the horrible mistake? Was she trying to break them up? Or was she just trying to make it apparent to both of them, before they were wed, of exactly what Justin would be surrendering? The extent of the potential he’d be “wasting”?

Whatever her motives or intentions, she was blowing on the embers of Justin’s doubts – and his greatest fear. The fear that he’d give away his heart again and have it broken again and, in the process, forfeit a life that could’ve made him happy, that could’ve made him what he was destined to be.

After reality began settling in and Brian became less and less like Brian, Justin reluctantly started suspecting that the best path forward, for both of them, might be in opposite directions. But how do you back out of something so momentous as an engagement, especially an engagement you’d ostensibly desired for half a decade? How do you tell the man you’ve hounded for years to change, that even though he did just that, it still isn’t enough? That he’d given his all and still failed?

 

“You don’t like it.”

Brian was wearing his “work clothes” – namely a pair of old _er_ jeans and a leather jacket that cost less than $1,000. The floorboards whined and groaned under his boots as he walked slowly, his hands behind his back, around the room where they’d gotten engaged. Justin was leaning against the door jamb with his arms folded as though refusing to commit one way or another to the prospect of entering.

“I never said that.”

Brian stopped and turned to look at him. “No, but you’re thinking it,” he said.

“You can’t read my mind.”

“I don’t need to. It’s written on your face, and I can read your face.”

“It’s dark.”

“We’ll put in larger windows.”

“It echoes.”

“We’ll buy rugs, put in insulation.”

“It’s cold.”

“There are fireplaces in every room, and we can install central air.”

“The kitchen’s . . . I don’t know. It’s not laid-out well.”

“We’ll redo the whole thing. You can design it anyway you want.”

“The upstairs bedrooms are so old-fashion.”

“We can tear out walls and open up the ceilings into the attic. We can turn the whole place essentially into a loft with so many skylights you’ll think there’s no roof.”

“There are so many trees.”

“We’ll cut them down.”

“The garden is old. It’ll need tons of upkeep.”

“We’ll hire a gardener.”

“I bet the roads get icy in the winter. We can’t drive the Vette.”

“I’ll buy an Outback.”

He focused on Brian with a look of abject horror. You couldn’t get more lesbionic than buying a Subaru. Brian laughed.

“Gotcha with that one,” he said, smirking. “But seriously, we can buy some kind of SUV. I’m sure Porsche makes one that I won’t be embarrassed to drive around in. Plus we'll need something big enough to put a car seat in.”

He walked over to Justin and put his arms around him. “And we can get a cat to catch the mice in the stables and a dog to keep the horse company, unless, of course, you want to get two horses. It goes without saying that _I_ ’d favor an Irish Wolf Hound in keeping with my noble ancestry, but we can get a mutt if that’s what your soft, artistic heart prefers.”

Justin gazed up at Brian with what he hoped was obvious desperation in his eyes, but judging from Brian’s sweet, lingering kiss, he hadn’t looked desperate enough. Or perhaps Brian couldn’t see it – or bear to acknowledge it if he did.

When he agreed to visit The House today, it’d been in hopes that they could talk about what was going on. Instead, it turned out that everything was even _worse_ at “Britin.” Brian was weirder; Justin was unhappier, and still he couldn’t begin to picture them living there. Maybe Justin could live there alone (although only if every last thing about the place was altered right down to the Tudor siding). He’d discovered he actually liked being alone, and when he needed company, he’d go into Pittsburgh or invite friends over. In fact, living alone would probably be good for his development as a painter.

But Brian definitely did _not_ fit in the picture.

Okay, so Justin would paint or read or watch T.V. or play with the XBox if he were alone, but if they lived there together, Brian would be climbing the walls and drinking himself into a stupor every night just to keep from going even more insane than he already was. Even if he’d deny it to the end of time, the fact was Brian loved having people around – the more the better. He loved watching them and being watched in return. He loved running stuff – owning Babylon had clearly been a dream come true (even if everyone else thought it was disgusting and unseemly). He loved holding court. He loved dancing and getting high. He loved music and irreverence in all its many permutations. He loved getting right up in society’s grill. He was exuberant and childish and a downright menace at cocktail parties and other polite social gatherings. He loved scenes. He loved horrifying people and then laughing in their faces. He loved youth and beauty and sex. His life was a treasure chest of shiny things. He was an extravagant flower in bloom, and even though he pretended to be cynical as hell, he was madly, wildly in love with life – with being fully, even painfully, alive.

“Britin” would kill Brian. It would be a Tudor-sided, fire-lit, walnut paneled grave. Couldn’t he fucking _see_ that? How could he be so fucking blind?

And how the fuck could he expect Justin’s supposed happiness to make up for everything else that he’d given up? Jesus fucking Christ! It was too much fucking pressure! Justin didn't want to become the caretaker of an alcoholic shadow too faded and miserable to get it up – or even want to.

Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe. He pulled out of Brian’s embrace and ran to the door. “I just hope the beams are strong,” he said without turning. “We’ll need them when we fucking hang ourselves.”


	6. "Way Too Well"

When he’d said it, Brian had merely blinked. Stunned, maybe even unsure if Justin was teasing. Justin wasn’t.

 _I know you too well . . . way too well_.

And so does Michael, he’d almost added. So does everyone.

Later, after Brian had left on the heels of Justin’s _Thank you for saying it, but the answer’s no_ , he remembered once telling Brian that he, Justin, was onto him. No one else did, but Justin knew him, and that knowledge had been everything to him, more precious than any jewel. He knew. He’d seen into Brian’s heart. A heart coveted by so many. A heart that was Justin’s alone (even if its owner was too stubborn to admit it). 

But with familiarity came disdain. He no longer simply knew Brian, he knew Brian too well. Far too well. The gold dust had rubbed off and all that remained was a man – and not even a particularly interesting man at that. Who can be interesting if they live every minute in the same bubble they’d inhabited since they were eighteen? Brian was incurious. Brian was intractable. Brian was boring. And like a fish out of water, he’d die if he was removed from his environment. He’d become confused. Lost. Angry. Who wants to marry someone like that – no matter how beautiful?

And beauty is a clock ticking ticking ticking. Brian heard it. It was one of the reasons he’d recently become so . . . well, unlikeable. Desperation doesn’t look good on anyone, not even Brian Kinney.

But the “no” was over and everything now had to be “yes.” Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, we’ll live in a country manor. Yes, I’ll say ‘I do,’ and Yes, I mean it. At least I think I do. At least I _should_ because it was too painful to watch Brian trying to contort himself into a chimera of what he thought Justin wanted. He was sawing off limbs to fit himself into a box that he alone had built. Justin may think marrying Brian was a bad idea, but that didn’t mean it didn’t break his heart. He’d love Brian once . . . and had hoped, after enough time had passed and distance obtained, he might again someday.

There was blood everywhere, staining the rug, the sheets, slick and warm on the bathroom floor, dark and gummy on the door knobs. It was amazing how much blood there was. Justin was surprised Brian wasn’t dead. How long did Brian have left? And how long until Brian turned the knife on him?

 

“What have you and Lindsay been talking about?”

Brian was leaning against the fridge munching on baby carrots. His question sounded only vaguely curious.

Justin froze. He’d been chopping vegetables for minestrone. The question was unexpected – and unwelcome.

He shrugged. “Art and stuff.”

Brian pushed away from the fridge and put his arms around Justin, resting his chin on Justin’s shoulder.

“Art and stuff. That sounds both boring and ominous.”

Justin laughed and fed him another carrot.

“You’d probably find it boring,” he said. “But ominous?”

Brian pushed his hair aside and kissed his neck. “If the art is yours, I wouldn’t be bored. Gus’s, perhaps, but definitely not yours. I love your work. And I bet Lindsay does too.”

Justin nodded. “At least she says so.”

“Why would she say it if she didn’t mean it?” Brian was now kissing his way down to Justin’s collarbone.

“Because she’s a WASP, and we WASPs constantly say things we don’t mean.”

He hadn’t meant it seriously, but Brian drew in a sharp, little breath all the same and stepped back.

“Brian,” he said, turning around to capture his hand before he could leave for the living room. Brian’s smile was small and fleeting.

They still hadn’t discussed – or even acknowledged – Justin's remark about hanging themselves.

Justin squeezed his hand before letting go and turning back to the vegetables. “We talk about my painting, ideas I have. Stuff like that mostly.”

Brian reached for the bottle of Beam but then seemed to think twice. He returned to the fridge and got a beer.

He was trying so hard, Justin thought. No slips. No gaffes. But when the hell had Justin ever complained about Brian having a few glasses of Beam now and then? If he’d ever complained about Brian’s drinking at all, it was when Brian got completely plastered and either puked on the floor or forgot his address when he tried to get home by cab. He hadn’t done either since Justin had returned from L.A. Justin suspected that as owner of Babylon, Brian didn’t want his customers and staff to see him falling down drunk.

“She says you’re very talented.”

“She’s being supportive like she’s always been.”

Brian sat down on the couch and flicked on the stereo. The C.D. was one of Justin’s that he knew Brian loathed. Justin winced.

“She also says she hopes you’ll still keep painting after we’re married.”

Justin looked over at him with a frown. What a weird thing for Lindsay to say.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Brian shrugged. “I have no idea. Have you told her that I don’t support you and your work?”

The question wasn’t angry; if anything Brian sounded hurt, although he was obviously trying to conceal it.

“No,” Justin said firmly. He covered the pot and set the burner to simmer. “I haven’t even insinuated it, and if she thinks that I have, she’s mistaken.”

He went over to the couch and snuggled up against Brian’s side. “You know,” he said, flicking Brian’s bottle with his finger. “You don’t have to forego whiskey on my account.”

Brian snorted as though amazed that Justin would even think such a thing. “I’m burnt out on Beam,” he said. “Too many calories.” He smiled and kissed the tip of Justin’s nose.

Bullshit.

“Am I really your ‘chance of a lifetime?’”

Justin was taken aback by the question. It was as though he was listening to a recording of himself – a bizarre, scratchy recording.

“Lindsay told you I said that?”

Brian put his arm around him and kissed his cheek. “Lindsay has been pestering me for years to tell you how I feel about you. And now, after I do, she’s pestering me to let you go.”

Justin frowned. His heart was pounding. Where was this conversation going? If it was headed toward a conversation about whether Justin did, in fact, want to go, he wasn’t ready for it. He still didn’t know what his answer was. Despite the blood everywhere, a big part of him _liked_ this new Brian. No matter how creepy it was sometimes.

“So,” he said. “Where are we going for the honeymoon? I’ve been looking at travel magazines . . .”

Brian looked surprised by the sharp change of direction, but as with everything these days, he quickly adapted.  
“Of course you have,” he said fondly. “We can go anywhere you want.”

“Well, where do _you_ want to go?”

“Wherever you do.”

Jesus Christ.

It’d been that way with everything, even to the point, as Em noted, that Justin was actually searching for some kind of limit, some kind of rebuke no matter how sweetly administered.

_I want the rehearsal dinner at the Fairmont._

_Done_.

_I want the ceremony and reception at Fallingwater._

_Done_.

_For the invitations, I want ecru cotton paper, copper plate engraving, ariel font narrow, black India ink, pearlized finish, vellum-covered, reply cards with return envelopes, accommodation cards, place cards and moving cards._

_Wow. Impressive. Done_.

_I want Golden Gardenias_

_Better get your ass in gear and order them now, Emmett_.

_I want to register at Neiman Marcus_

_As long as we can also register with Prada_.

 _I want to fly first class to wherever we decide to go for the honeymoon_.

 _Duh_.

_I want . . . what do you call it? Hand-tailored suits?”_

_Bespoke. Already made an appointment for a fitting at Saks although because of the time crunch, they’ll have to be off the rack, but I’ve used the tailor there before. He’s good_.

 _In more ways than one?_ *wink wink*

*Blank stare* _Huh?_

“Hello, earth to Sunshine.” Brian waved a hand in front of Justin’s face. “I think the soup’s boiling over.”

Justin shook his head, and Brian gave him a playful nudge off the couch.

“I contacted an architect today,” Brian said over the sound of clattering dishes. “He’s going to come out to Britin with me later this week. You should come to.”

 _Britin_. Justin had been sure Brian wouldn’t actually adopt the name. Old Brian certainly wouldn’t have – at least not without a healthy pinch of snarkiness. New Brian was virtually snark-free, and any snark there was was accompanied by a smile and a kiss.

“I’m going to be busy.”

“You don’t even know what day it’ll be.”

“I’m working on a painting Lindsay wants to sell. The guy who wants it asked for specific characteristics – colors, brush-strokes, that kind of thing. I’m not feeling terribly inspired, but I might be at any time, I can’t say for sure when. That’s how art works.”

The last few words were more pointed than they needed to be. Brian blinked at him.

“I never thought otherwise. Okay, so if your muse visits you than you don’t have to go. I won’t make any decisions without you.”

Justin didn’t look at him as he ladled soup into the bowls. “Why not? It’s your house.”

“It’s _our_ house.”

“You bought it.

“We’re both going to live in it.”

“Bread with your soup? You have a choice between olive and wheat.”

Brian stood, walked to the door, put on his coat and left.

Justin put both of their bowls on the table, sat down, covered his face, and cried.

 

“Why didn’t you show him the article?”

He and Lindsay were wrapping an endless number of dishes and appliances in newspaper. It was a welcome break both from wedding planning and painting, the latter of which had basically stopped after he’d moved back to the loft.

“He’d make too big a deal about it. He already suspects I want to run away to New York.”

“Do you?”

“What?”

“Do you want to run away to New York?”

He sighed and reached for a blender. “I guess Brian and I will be doing this with our . . . make that _his_ stuff, too.”

Lindsay snorted with laughter. “I highly doubt that,” she said. “I’m sure Brian will hire people to do everything. You’ll wake up in the loft one day and go to bed in your grand mansion that night. It’ll be completely painless.”

Justin just nodded. Lindsay paused and put down a serving platter.

“Justin, what’s wrong? You just get quieter and quieter.”

He shrugged again and took over wrapping the platter where Lindsay had left off. “I wish he’d let me keep my studio. It would give me a place to go.”

“Have you asked him?”

“He says I’ll be busy taking care of the horse and bossing the gardener around.”

Lindsay snorted again but fell silent when she saw his face.

“You’re kidding, right?”

He smiled at her guiltily. “In wording maybe, but not in substance. The house is supposed to be all I’d dreamed it would be. All I ever wanted – well, a house and a husband.”

“And do you?”

He was silent. He didn’t want Lindsay to hear the inevitable tears in his voice. She placed a hand on his shoulder, but he turned his head to the side. He didn’t look at her as he spoke.

“I don’t know,” he whispered. “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore. You and Mel and Gus are leaving. Brian is . . . Brian is so weird . . . And I can’t just go from deciding once and for all that I don’t want to be with him to marrying him just like that.”

He snapped his fingers. “I’d made a decision,” he said. “My first, real, honest-to-God decision.”

Lindsay turned her own head. He watched her wipe a tear away.

“Poor Brian,” she said.

“I know,” he replied.

She bit her lip and looked back at him. “You need to tell him. He’ll figure it out on his own eventually, but by then it’ll be too late. Unless you don’t mind getting a divorce. Having gone through a couple of my own, I don’t recommend it. He’s not as strong as you think he is. And the bombing . . . the bombing has made him . . . . . Let’s move to Gus’s room and start packing his toys,” she said abruptly.

She stood up, but he grabbed her hand. “What were you going to say about the bombing?” he asked. “You need to tell me, Linds. I need to know how much of this is about – about loving me – and how much is about his fucked up head.”

Lindsay laughed, but the sound was brittle. “Brian’s always had a fucked up head.”

“But it’s . . . it’s fucked up in a new way. Even if I decided I wanted to leave, I feel like I can’t. That he might break if I do. I feel trapped.”

She pulled him to his feet. “I don’t have the answer,” she said. “But I do have the question: Do you love him, Justin? If you don’t, let him go . . .”

“. . . and if I do . . . or might . . . or, fuck, I don’t know?”

“. . . then let him go.”

He frowned at her questioningly. “The answer is the same either way? I don’t get it.”

“Either way you can both be free,” she replied. “Whatever that means, and wherever that will take each of you.”


	7. Another Surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have your tissues handy for this one.

“Be ready at two. I have a surprise.”

Justin winced. Jesus, another surprise. He was getting sick of surprises.

“I’m with Linds,” he replied. “We just started packing the living room.”

“Tell her she can come along.”

“Brian . . .”

“Put her on the phone.”

Justin sighed and handed the phone to Lindsay. As she always did when she was talking with Brian, she went to the other room and turned her back. It must be instinct, Justin thought. Mel hated Lindsay’s long, giggly phone calls with “that fucking asshole.” Mel was jealous, and she had a reason to be. Even in the beginning, Justin hadn’t been blind to the less-than-subtle crush Linds had on her old college pal.

“. . . okay, okay,” she said in her playfully grudging tone that seemed to be reserved for Brian alone. “We’ll see you then. Yup. Bye.”

She handed Justin his cell phone.

“So, did he tell you where we’re going?”

She settled herself back on the floor and starting searching amidst all the newspaper for the packing tape.

“God, I never knew we owned so much damn pottery . . .”

“Linds.”

She didn’t look at him. “He says it’s a surprise,” she said airily.

“Can you at least give me a hint? His ‘surprises’ are freaking me out.”

“I thought you’d always wanted ‘surprises.’”

“Not anymore. Not when they come from Brian. Linds, every fucking _day_ is a surprise. Did I tell you he’s bringing flowers home almost every night?”

“I have a hard time picturing Brian buying flowers,” she said. “Ah, here it is!” She held up the packing tape. “I bet he has Cynthia do it for him. Are they pretty?”

Justin just looked at her. Talking with her about Brian was like trying to catch a greased eel.

“He’s gotten rid of his porn collection. I went looking for the latest issue of _Thrust_ and couldn’t find it”

“Why? You didn’t like him looking at porn?”

Justin couldn’t sit still for another minute. He stood abruptly and began pacing, which was a challenge given all the shit all over the place.

“I don’t _care_ if he looks at porn! I’ve _never_ cared. We used to do it together sometimes. When the _fuck_ have I ever told him I have a problem with porn? What am I? Some kind of uptight, righteous prude? OW!”

“Ah, there are the scissors. Sit down before you hurt yourself.”

He picked up the scissors and handed them to her . . . and then he started pacing again.

“The other day, I suggested we call this couple we used to fuck around with, and you know what he said? He said, get this, ‘You’re the only one I want to be with.’”

She paused and looked up at him as he ran his fingers through his hair in exasperation.

“Justin, isn’t he trying to be a real couple? There aren’t a lot of real couples who have foursomes.”

“He actually got pretty upset when I made the suggestion.”

“Probably because he thinks you’re testing him.”

He looked at her incredulously. “You’re joking, right?”

She bit her lip and turned away. She wasn’t joking.

“Brian told you that??”

“Not exactly. He just said he thought you might still be unsure of his commitment to you. I could read between the lines. I’ve known Brian a long time.”

He wanted to grab something and smash it – especially the painting he’d made for her and Mel to take with them. He was so . . . _angry_. But at whom?

“So, I guess that’s why he’s gotten upset when I suggest we get high – because he thinks I’m testing his resolve to ‘clean up’ or something? Is that why he clams up when I suggest we go out? Is that why he’s gotten rid of his club clothes? Because he thinks I _doubt_ that he wants to be with me? Jesus Christ! . . .”

Lindsay stood and brushed off her hands in her ‘I’m done talking about this’ way. “You wanted to get married, Justin,” she said. “You wanted what Michael and Ben have. You told me yourself not more than three months ago. You sat right over there . . .” She pointed at the couch. “. . . and told me you were sick of Brian’s lifestyle and that you wished he would change. Well, he’s changed. Now do you want to keep doing this or not?”

He stood silently for a moment. He wasn’t done talking about all of this. He had things he wanted . . . no _needed_ . . . to say. He hated how she always unilaterally decided when a conversation was over. It was so Brian. Well, _old_ Brian.

“Tea?” she said and without waiting for a reply, she walked to the kitchen and put on the kettle. “I’ve also got those cookies you like.”

 

Brian arrived at exactly two and stood looking disdainfully at the mess until Lindsay threw a pillow at him.

“You’ll be doing this too,” she said. “Or at least your movers will be.”

He was dressed in jeans and a black sweater. And he was wearing the dreaded “work” jacket again. _Please,_ Justin thought, _please let’s not go to The House again_.

They took Lindsay and Mel’s car, which turned out to be a good idea because as soon as they crossed over into West Virginia, Brian got off the highway and began turning onto narrower and narrower roads until the asphalt disappeared altogether into gravel. Justin felt queasier with every turn, and it wasn’t only due to car sickness.

On either side of them, fields, still dead and slushy but nonetheless beautiful, rolled into the distance. Now and then they passed what must be very old farmhouses given how close their hewn stone steps were to the road. There were cows in pastures and chickens in the yards. Brian was smiling that weird, alien-from-outer-space smile he wore when he’d taken Justin to see The House for the first time.

Nothing good was going to come of this little jaunt.

Finally, they pulled into a long driveway that ended at a more modern farmhouse with a huge barn and paddocks and . . .

. . . dear fucking God, horses.

Brian parked the car, and they got out. There was a sharp, little wind that whipped their hair around and tugged at their jackets. Brian gestured that they should follow him to the barn.

“This is beautiful!” Lindsay said, looking around in awe. “Oh and look! Ducks! We should’ve brought Gus.”

Justin didn’t answer. He couldn’t. A woman had just emerged from the barn leading a brown horse with a black tail and mane and a spot of white on his nose.

“Took me a bit to catch him,” the woman said when she reached them. “He still needs some breaking in. Say hello to Patriot.”

Justin looked at Brian as he ran his hand down the horse’s neck and over his back admiringly. Justin had seen the same look when Brian had run his hand along the new bar he’d installed after he’d bought Babylon. He turned to Justin.

“So,” he said. “What do you think? He’s a beauty.”

“Pure thoroughbred,” the woman said. “I already introduced Mr. Kinney to the mare. The stud’s from the next farm over. We can go there if you want, but I’ll have to call first. He might be out in the field, and it doesn’t look like you folks wore the right footwear to go tromping around in a muddy field.”

Brian laughed. “I would’ve told them to wear their shit-kickers except this is a surprise.” He turned to Justin again.

“What do you think?”

Justin could feel everyone’s eyes on him, waiting for his answer, but he couldn’t speak. He felt faint. He felt like he might cry.

“Wanna ride him?” the woman asked.

Justin swallowed and cleared his throat. “I . . . uh . . . uhm . . . I don’t know how to ride.”

“Oh that’s right,” the woman said cheerfully. “I forgot. You’ll learn quick though. Mr. Kinney hired the best instructor around.”

Lindsay grabbed his arm and squeezed it hard. She even gave it a little shake. What the fuck was she trying to tell him? He turned to look at her. She mouthed “say something!”

“Brian,” he stammered. “I . . . I”

“Can he just take a quick ride down the driveway?” Brian asked the woman. “You could lead him.”

“Sure,” the woman said. She went back in the barn and returned carrying a saddle and bridle. The horse stamped and tossed his head when she put them on. He did not look pleased.

“C’mere,” the woman said, and Justin approached warily. “Grab the saddle with both hands just like that, and I’ll hold the stirrup as you put your foot in it . . .”

Suddenly, Justin couldn’t breathe. The horse neighed and tossed his head again; he seemed to be demanding an answer as well.

“I can’t,” Justin said and let go of the saddle. “I just . . . I’m still a little car sick from the drive.”

The woman looked disappointed, but then Brian shrugged off his jacket.

“I’ll go,” he said.

The woman showed him how to hold on as he stepped into the stirrup and threw his leg over the horse’s back. The horse moved around a bit, so it took a few tries, but at last Brian was fully seated.

“Helps to have long legs,” the woman said. “Alright, now hold on to his mane with both hands . . . don’t worry, you won’t hurt him. I’ll have the reins, so don’t worry about him takin’ off.”

Justin looked up at Brian’s face. He was flushed, and his hair was pushed back by the wind. He smiled down at Justin – a real smile. A happy smile. He’d never looked so beautiful. Brian stretched a hand out, and Justin seized it, squeezing it hard. This impossibly beautiful, this impossibly generous . . . this impossibly _amazing_ man was his.

They didn’t release each other’s hands until the woman started leading the horse down the driveway.

“Just relax,” she said. “Roll your body with the motion. Don’t freeze up. Be as loose as you can.”

Justin heard Lindsay snicker in his ear, but he didn’t turn to look at her. He only had eyes for Brian as he rode away.

“Very good,” the woman said, her words flung back to them on the wind. “You’re a natural at this.”

Only when they disappeared around a bend did Justin realize that Lindsay was still squeezing his arm.

“Ow,” he said, swatting at her hand. “Let go.”

“Not until I give you another shake,” she said and then did just that.

“What’s that for?” he asked.

“That’s for not flinging yourself into his arms,” she said about as angrily as Lindsay was capable of sounding.

He stared at her. “He bought me a fucking horse,” he said. “A _horse_!”

She gave him an “and yeah?” face.

“I think I need to break up with him. How can he buy me a fucking horse?” He desperately hadn’t wanted to, but he couldn’t help it. Lindsay dragged him to the car, got in the back seat and pulled him in beside her where he sobbed in her arms.

“You can’t let him see you like this,” she said.

He nodded and drew back, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

“I’ll say we got cold,” she said. “See, I have tears in my eyes, too. It’s the wind”

Justin laughed brokenly. “Bullshit,” he said.

“Oh Justin, you’ve _got_ to do something,” she said, grabbing his shoulders. “You’ve _got_ to make up your mind.”

He started to cry again and then punched the driver’s seat out of frustration at himself.

“But don’t you see I _can’t_?” he choked. “Could _you_ break up with him, Linds? If he was yours, could _you_ do it?”

She turned away.

“But he’s _not_ mine,” she said. Her voice sounded hollow. Resigned. “He’s yours. You wanted him, and he gave himself to you. Now you need to decide what to do with him.”

When Justin saw Brian returning in the rearview mirror, he and Lindsay got out of the car. Clearly Brian had done such a good job that the woman had let go of the reins and given them to him.

“Wanna try a trot?” she asked. 

Brian looked at her with an eyebrow raised. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“C’mon,” she said. “I’ll hold onto you. Now just give his sides a squeeze. You shouldn’t need to, but if he doesn’t go, give him a kick. He needs to learn who’s in charge.”

She grabbed Brian’s knee and started to run beside him as the horse lurched into a trot. Brian was clearly startled and fell backwards for a second.

“It’s alright; I’ve got you,” the woman said. “Now try to relax. It’s bumpier with a trot, but it’s the same concept. Just loosen up. There you go.”

Justin and Lindsay watched as Brian trotted around the yard. His knuckles were white from clutching the reins so tightly, but he was grinning at them like a little kid.

“Gus’ll love this!” he shouted. His voice wobbled the same way his body did. “Ow, my ass!”

Justin couldn’t help laughing. “You’re just going to have to toughen up,” he called back.

“To get him to walk again, just pull back on the reins. Gently now! A horse’s mouth is very sensitive.”

The horse slowed. Brian’s face was shiny with sweat, and he wiped his brow with his arm.

“Not a bad workout,” he said breathlessly. “Alright, now how do I get down?”

“Same way you got up,” the woman said. “Here, I’ll hold the reins. Hold on to the saddle and dismount . . . make sure you keep one foot in the stirrup or you’ll fall on your bum.”

“Don’t want that,” Brian said. “My bum is already sore enough as it is. Wow, I feel like I’ve been on a boat. My balance is all off. So, you two, how did I look?”

“Great,” Justin and Lindsay said at the same time. And then Justin added, “You always look great.”

Brian laughed and pulled Justin into his arms. “It was fun,” he whispered against Justin’s ear, “but not as fun as riding you.”

All the blood in Justin’s body headed south. He was glad his parka provided camouflage.

Brian pulled away and winked at him before turning to the woman.

“The check’s already in the mail,” he said. “My accountant sent it yesterday.”

The woman smiled and nodded her thanks. “He’s going to a good home,” she said, “and that’s what really matters.”

On their way to the car, Brian put his arm around Justin’s shoulders. 

“And so are you,” he said. "So are both of us."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is up with Lindsay? She's all over the map. Very canon, indeed.


	8. Temptation?

Brian wasn’t the only one staring in the mirror these days looking as though a stranger was reflected there. Justin didn’t recognize himself. His voice sounded strange. When he looked at his hands, they seemed to belong to someone else (unless there was paint on them). The things that came out of his mouth were schizoid. One day he ached with love for Brian; the next that love turned into a sock that’d been shoved in his mouth by unknown captors to keep him from screaming and alerting the neighbors. One day all he wanted was to make love with Brian in a canopied bed in the light of a blazing fire while the wind outside whistled through the West Virginian hills; the next he wanted to smell the thousands of scents of a lower-Manhattan summer, to see faces of every shade and hear voices speaking every language. One day Brian was his future, the only thing that mattered; the next day Justin was craving solitude, the time and space to give himself over to his art – to all the possibilities a life of freedom had to offer.

And surely none of this was lost on Brian even though their discussions had dwindled in consequence to nothing but wedding plans, the plots of T.V. shows and what groceries to buy for the week. He could feel Brian watching him, trying to read him. He was so obviously confused, uncertain what to make of one minute’s clinginess and the next minute’s irritation. Of one minute’s obvious love and adoration and the next minute’s desire to run away. Far away.

One evening, as Justin was hurriedly putting on his jacket so he could leave the loft before he suffocated to death in his own angst, Brian finally got angry.

“What the fuck?” he yelled. “What’d I do _now_? Jesus, just fucking _tell_ me! Do you want me to stop working? Fine, I’ll go to the office early tomorrow and finish this project. Do you want me to make dinner, that’s fine, but just one fucking hour ago when I offered, you told me you didn’t mind doing it. Do you want me to fuck you? Do you want to fuck me? Would you like me to put on a different pair of jeans? Part my hair differently? Give you a backrub? Sing you a fucking love song? Fine! Just fucking _tell_ me!”

“I _did_ tell you,” Justin shouted back. “I just want to go for a walk, okay? Can I do that without you having some kind of fucking existential crisis?” 

The stood glaring at each other, their faces flushed, their chests heaving.

It felt good. It felt _really_ good.

They ended up fucking frantically on the floor. Justin didn’t even have the time or inclination to take his jacket off first. Why do something else with his hands if he could be grabbing and clutching and clawing at every inch of Brian’s bare skin?

They fucked three more times before surrendering to exhaustion and falling asleep in each other’s arms.

The next morning, neither of them mentioned last night’s argument.

 

Everything seemed to be taking a toll on Brian. He’d lost weight. He looked pale. Justin would’ve been afraid the cancer had returned if Brian hadn’t been given a clean bill of health. He was constantly exercising, but only at home. Apparently, the gym and its steam rooms were no-go zones. Things had changed so drastically that the others had started giving Justin the hairy eyeball.

“So,” Ted said one day. “It’s not just the baths and backrooms that are off-limits; it’s the gym too?”

They were at the diner. It was one of the rare times Justin was there without Brian.

“Yeah,” said Michael. “Brian’s a grown-up . . .”

“Well, sort of,” Emmett chimed in. Michael glared at him for interrupting.

“I mean it’s not like Ben and I forbid each other from going to the gym alone.”

“Or you could solve everything by getting your own membership so you guys could go together,” Ted said, sounding like he was trying to solve an intractable problem. “Not that I’ve been looking or anything, but Brian’s losing some of his bulk. He can’t just be running on a treadmill. He needs to be using weights.”

Justin dropped his spoon. It clattered on his plate, see-sawed on the edge for a second and then fell to the floor.

“Better not do that at the reception,” Deb called over, laughing raucously.

Justin didn’t turn to look at her. All he could do was look from one friend to another and back again. He was sure his mouth was hanging open, but his whole body was too numb for him to know for sure.

“You think I’m not letting Brian go to the gym,” he said. His voice was flat with utter disbelief.

They all looked at each other anxiously.

“Well, since we never see him there anymore,” said Emmett, “we just kind of assumed . . .”

“You assumed wrong,” Justin almost shouted. He was shaking all over.

“Hey, it’s okay baby,” Emmett said, rubbing Justin’s arm. “It’s not like we wouldn’t understand, I mean, for Brian, the gym was a more brightly-lit version of the baths . . .”

“But maybe it would be different now,” Michael said, the little fucking traitor. “You’ve got to start trusting him, Justin.”

He didn’t know if he was going to puke or scream or both. It was too close a call to know for sure.

“I have _never_ even mentioned the gym to Brian,” he said, his voice low with seething anger. “If he’s not going to the gym anymore, it’s because _he_ doesn’t want to, not because I forbade him.”

“Maybe he’s worried the temptation would be too much,” Emmett said, nodding in empathy. “When I was trying to ‘see the light,’ the gym was hell on earth.”

“Well, hopefully Brian’s not trying to go straight,” Ted said, trying to lighten the mood. “That would be slightly less weird than his getting married.”

They all laughed nervously. Justin did not join them.

That afternoon he bought himself a gym membership and called Brian.

“Hey, Sunshine,” Brian said. “Bored? Need a little phone sex to pick you up, so to speak?”

Justin laughed perfunctorily. “No, I just thought you might like to meet me at the gym after work. I just bought a membership.”

There was nothing but silence of the other end. It went on for a long time.

“Brian?”

Brian cleared his throat. “Uhm . . . well, I’m . . . I’m kinda busy here . . .”

“You were willing a moment ago to engage in one of your lengthy phone fucks. If you had time for that, then surely you have the time for a workout.”

“Phone sex _is_ a workout.”

“I meant a workout that involved other muscle groups than your right wrist.”

“I don’t _just_ use my hand,” Brian replied. “I’ll have you know that multiple orgasms are great for your abs.”

“Brian. I’m serious.”

More silence.

“I don’t want to.”

“Come on. We’re getting flabby. We don’t want to have to do another refitting before the wedding.”

More silence.

“Why are you doing this?”

Justin frowned. What the fuck?

“Why am I doing what?”

Brian sighed.

“Fine,” he said, “if you need this then I’ll do it.”

He hung up before Justin could ask him what the hell he was talking about.

 

The boys were thrilled to have their (apparently) long-lost workout buddy back.

“Better drop back on the weight a bit, boss,” Ted said. “You haven’t been lifting for a while.”

Ben and Michael were there doing some light exercise that Michael’s doctors must’ve recommended for his recovery.

“Good to see you, Brian,” Ben said in his usual mellow tone. “And you better listen to Ted. You don’t want to get a sprain on your first day back.”

“Cue smartass remark,” said Emmett, but Brian just went to the free weight area and started lifting.

Ted, Emmett, Michael and Ben all made little faces at each other.

“Cranky-puss,” Emmett said. He turned to Justin. “Don’t worry, honey, it doesn’t matter how many bridezillas I’ve had to deal with, I always feel better after a workout.”

Brian was stonily silent for the entire time. He seemed to be staring into the middle distance. It was as though he was in some kind of weird bubble.

“Steam room?” Ben suggested when they were finished. “C’mon, Michael, a little heat will be good for you.”

Emmett nodded at Brian. “Cue smartass remark.”

Silence.

“Sure, why not?” Brian said unpleasantly. “Let’s all go to the steam room.”

Michael grabbed Justin’s arm. “What the hell is going on?” he whispered.

“Damned if I know,” Justin replied, tugging his arm out of Michael’s grip.

They all went to the steam room and draped themselves all over one of the benches. Justin couldn’t help smiling to himself as he imagined them doing this every day for a zillion years. I seemed more endearing than pathetic. He sat down beside Brian and leaned over to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Brian grabbed his hand and shoved it between his legs.

“There,” he said (too loudly). “No boner. Did I pass? Do I get a gold fucking star?”

Everyone in the entire room stopped everything they were doing and turned to look at them.

“Because that’s what you wanted to find out, isn’t it?” Brian continued, despite Michael’s hissed “Brian.” 

He was flushed with anger. Justin snatched his hand back, feeling hurt and just as angry.

Suddenly Brian’s expression turned pained. He reached out and pulled Justin to him, wrapping both his arms around him and rocking him gently.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Justin, I’m so sorry. Forgive me. That was a total asshole move. I don’t blame you for feeling insecure. I’ve never given you a reason not to. But I’m trying to change that . . .”

Justin felt tears fill his eyes. Jesus fucking Christ! He was like a leaky faucet these days!

“Gotta pee,” he said and pulled himself out of Brian’s embrace. When he met them all in the locker room, Brian gave him a small, sad little smile. It broke Justin’s heart. He threw his arms around Brian’s neck.

“It’s _okay_ ,” he whispered. “It’s okay . . . we’re okay.”

He pulled back and gave Brian a meaningful kiss. He felt Brian's smile graze his lips.

“ _Now_ I’ve got a boner,” he purred.


	9. The Decision

Justin smiled a little “ha-ha” smile when he parked the Vette right in front of Michael and Ben’s house. He knew that, happily married or not, Michael would silently seethe with jealousy when he saw Justin driving Brian’s baby. By the tight smile and simple “hey” with which he was greeted, he knew he was right.

Poor Michael.

Living with Michael for that first couple of weeks while he was looking for his own place had been pretty awkward. Both of them had known it was only a matter of time before Brian made an appearance in one way or another. For Justin to go to Michael after breaking up with Brian, and for Michael to let him stay was tantamount to a kick in the balls. He could’ve stayed with Daphne or his mom; if he hadn’t been trying to hurt Brian, he would’ve. But he had been. Going to Michael (and the traitorous Stepford life Michael had come to represent in Brian’s mind) was a gigantic middle finger.

The irony, however, was that living with Michael and Ben had made Justin doubt his desire for their life, a desire that’d been all-consuming. Every morning, he woke to the sound of Ben and Michael puttering around and chattering about this and that. Then Ben would make breakfast; they’d yell at Hunter to get up, and then they’d all sit down with place settings and napkin rings and little pitchers of milk and syrup. Then there’d be more puttering and chattering until they all left on their bikes together.

It was charming . . . for about four days.

 _There is NO WAY those two are having sex_ , he’d told Daphne. _They putter and chatter. A couple who putters and chatters can’t possibly be fucking_.

She’d laughed. _You do realize who you sound like, I hope_.

He’d ignored her. _And everything matches. The walls match the dishes. The sofa cushions match the drapes. It was like there was a giant, one-day seventy-five percent off everything in the store sale at Bed, Bath & Beyond, and they bought everything all at once._

_Duh. They’re grown-ups. Besides, everything at Brian’s place matches, so what’s the big deal?_

_It’s different because Brian has a_ vision _of how he wants things to look. He wants a modern style that accentuates the original wood and brick in his loft. Ben and Michael . . . their house looks like a bunch of stuff that all wound up in the same place by accident. Buddha statues, X-Men figurines and floral wallpaper and carpet in the bathrooms . . . Wallpaper, Daph! Carpet! In the bathrooms!_ Floral _wallpaper!_

_Give them a break. Maybe that’s how it was when they bought the place and they haven’t had time to change everything yet._

_How hard is it to strip wallpaper, tear up carpet, which is probably half-rotten anyway, and slap on a coat of paint?_

_Maybe you should offer to do it and earn your keep instead of being a big, old mooch,_ she'd said teasingly and given him a nudge. 

_And it’s not only that, they have these annoying neighbors . . ._

_The ones they invited for dinner with you and Brian?_

Justin had covered his face. Oh God, that night had _sucked_. Brian had been such a fucking asshole!

He must’ve mumbled the words out loud because Daphne had said _Maybe so, but it also sounds like those guys didn’t have a sense of humor_.

 _Okay, whatever,_ he’d said. _Yes, those neighbors, but there are others as well. All anyone can talk about is baby-and-house-stuff._

 _That’s because that’s what’s important to them_.

 _It’s so sanctimonious_.

 _All grown-ups are sanctimonious. I think it’s a requirement_.

 _Well, then I’m obviously not a grown-up then_.

She’d arched an eyebrow. _You’re not sanctimonious? I don’t know, Justin. Ever since this Prop 14 stuff . . ._.

He’d been so angry at her. Sanctimonious? That was easy for her to say! Her civil rights weren’t at stake!

 _Fuck you,_ he’d spat and got up from her couch with the intent to leave. But she’d grabbed his wrist and pulled him back down beside her. 

_Hey,_ she said, reaching out to push a lock of hair behind his ear. _All I’m saying is that you’ve been kind of judgmental lately, and it’s not like you. I mean this whole thing with your mom and her boyfriend? Sometimes I hear you talking and I feel like I don’t recognize you. No one can do anything right in your eyes – now not even Michael and Ben who’d been your idols until, like, yesterday. Now they’re boring._

Justin had scrubbed his face with both hands and run his fingers through his hair. How could he explain that _everything_ and _everybody_ had been pissing him off lately?

 _It’s like you’re on the rag 24/7_ , she’d said and then punched him when he made a horrified expression. _Seriously. Lighten-up, will you? You’ve changed and not really in a good way, Just. I mean, okay, I get it. You’re sick of Brian, and now you’re sick of Michael and Ben. If you think you know a better way to live, then go live it. Don’t just put other people down_.

 _But don’t you see that I can’t_ he’d shouted. _I_ can’t _live the way I want because I want something in-between, and I want it with Brian, and . . . Shit! . . ._

She’d pulled him into her arms when she saw his eyes fill with tears.

 _. . . and he wouldn’t even fucking_ try _to understand – or even listen to me. I didn’t_ want _to leave him, Daph. He _made_ me!_

_And now you’ve left, and now you’re realizing the grass on the other side of the fence wasn’t really greener . . ._

_It’s just mowed, that’s all,_ he’d said with self-deprecating snort. _Did I tell you that Michael and Ben do yard work together and talk about perennials and shit?_

 _Like I said, they’re grown-ups,_ she’d said. _That’s the kind of things grown-ups talk about_.

 _I can’t imagine Brian talking about perennials and doing yard work and swapping organic baby food recipes . . . but, Jesus, Daph, I was fucking sick of hearing him talk about poppers and tricks and Prada shoes_.

She’d pushed him away but kept her hands on his shoulders. _What you need,_ she’d said, _is to get the hell out of Pittsburgh and find something you’re not sick of_.

He’d smiled wanly. _If I did, would you come visit me?_ he’d asked.

She’d kissed his nose. _Only if you take the giant tampon out of your ass and go back to being the Justin I know and love._

“Heeelllloooo,” Michael said. “Earth to Boy Wonder. I asked if you wanted coffee or tea.”

Justin shook his head. “Sorry,” he said. “Lots on my mind recently. I’ll have tea.”

Michael rolled his eyes and then went to the kitchen. “I bet you’re pre-occupied. Emmett tells me you’re the bride from hell.”

Justin gritted his teeth. Apparently Michael was back to the “Boy Wonder” shtick again.

“He did not. In fact, he said I’m the easiest bride he’s dealt with in months. I told him that’s because I’m using the time-honored remedy of lots of valium washed down with a lot of vodka martinis.”

Michael snorted. Good. Awkwardness suspended for the time being. He came back bearing a teapot and two cups . . . with saucers nonetheless. The teapot was shaped like a robot.

“Any finger sandwiches? I like cucumber and cream cheese.”

“Fuck you,” Michael replied amiably. “So, I see Brian’s letting you drive the Vette.”

“And eat in it to,” Justin said with a smirk. It was just too easy to wind Michael up.

“Gee, I guess he really does love you.”

“He let _you_ drive the Vette.”

“Yeah, but he was pissed as hell that I ate in it.”

“Well, maybe he’s changed?”

“You think? I hadn’t noticed.”

Justin ignored his tone and poured himself another cup of tea. “I thought that’s why you asked me to come over – to talk about Brian and how he’s changed.”

Michael shifted uncomfortably in his chair and cleared his throat. “It’s just . . . it’s . . . I _need_ to know . . . I need to know how much of this is you and how much is him . . . and how much is the bombing.”

Justin put down his cup before he could drop it. Michael must have seen something scary darken his expression because he immediately started thumbing through his limited vocabulary to explain himself.

“Look, I’m sorry about . . . I’m sorry I was an asshole at the diner the other day. It’s just that Brian’s . . .”

“. . . my best friend since forever and I love him and . . .”

Michael glared at him. “If you’re going to make fun of me, then let’s just end this right now.”

Justin rolled his eyes. “I’m kidding,” he said. “Go on to the substance. I don’t need the preamble. I’ve already heard it a thousand times.”

“Sounds like maybe you needed reminding,” Michael grumbled. “Anyway, I was going to say that I’m worried about him, and all I need to know is whether I should be.”

Justin inhaled sharply. It was as though Michael had found a grimy, little window somewhere, wiped it clean and peeked in at his fears. He so desperately wanted to talk to someone about everything . . . about Brian, but was Michael that someone? He seemed an even worse choice than Lindsay. He’d talk to Daphne (and he did), but she didn’t know Brian as well as Brian’s friends did. Her answers always boiled down to, “It looks to me like he’s madly in love with you. I don’t see the problem here.” But there _was_ a problem.

“Look,” Michael said earnestly. “I promise that whatever we talk about will just stay between us . . . and, well, Ben, too, of course . . .”

“Kind of like the whole cancer thing stayed between you and me?” Justin snapped. “No way, Michael. There’s no way you can keep a secret from Brian.”

Michael seemed to concede the battle. He nodded and looked down into his teacup.

“Can you just . . . I need to know. Either you’re coercing him . . .”

Justin slammed down his cup so hard it chipped the saucer. Michael winced but didn’t say anything.

“I am _not_ coercing him! I have never . . . Jesus Christ, Michael! This is all _his_ idea. Not mine. I don’t even think I want . . . Fuck! I am _not_ talking to you about any of this, so just forget it!”

“Okay, okay,” he snapped. “I hear you. You’re not coercing him. Then it’s the bombing.”

Justin flopped back against the couch cushions and stared up at the ceiling. “I guess you don’t think that maybe it’s just because Brian _wants_ to change?”

“Did it look like that to you with that scene at the gym the other day? Looked to me like there was some kind of gun being held to his head . . .”

Justin sat up straight again, ready for a fight. He was definitely _not_ holding a gun to Brian’s head. If anyone was holding a gun to anyone’s head, it was Brian holding one to _his_. Marry me! Bareback with me! Live in a country manor with me! Ride horses with me! Cuddle with me! Make love with me! Have my babies! Hell, if you want, _I’ll_ have _your_ babies . . . _I’d give him anything; I’d do anything . . . I’d be anything . . . just to make him happy_.

Okay, fine!” Justin shouted. “You want to know what’s going on?” he stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Fine. I’ll show you.”

Michael looked up at him with his wide, puppy-dog eyes. “Where are we going?” he asked warily. “I have to make dinner for Ben and Hunter tonight . . .”

Justin put on his jacket and threw Michael his. “Call Ben and tell him to order take-out.”

“Hey! You can’t just boss me around! Maybe you can with . . . .”

“Finish that sentence and you’ll regret it,” Justin said calmly, making the threat all the more real. “I’ll make sure Brian knows about it.”

Michael paled.

Justin closed his eyes and sighed. “Look,” he said. “I’m offering you an answer to your questions . . . or at least the best answer I can give. Are you coming or not?”

Michael stood up and slowly put on his jacket. He followed Justin out to the Vette and got in the passenger seat. Justin drove to the interstate while Michael explained to Ben on the phone that he was going out “somewhere” with Justin and might not be back in time to make dinner. Then they chattered. And chattered. When Michael finally hung up, they’d already crossed the border into West Virginia.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” Justin said. “I’m not going to say one word to you. Not one single word, got it? You can draw your own conclusions. All I’m going to say is that Brian bought this ‘for me’. . .” he made finger-quotes in the air “. . . within days of the bombing.”

Michael swallowed and nodded. “Got it,” he said.

 

The sun was so low by the time they arrived at The House that it was almost ready to slide down behind the hills. Fortunately, the day had been sunny, so the air was still warm enough to walk around without freezing to death. Justin pulled into the driveway and turned off the Vette. He looked over at Michael whose eyes were bugging out of his head.

“This is the house?” he said. There was disbelieving awe in his voice. He turned to look at Justin, but Justin just looked back at him expressionlessly.

“Right,” Michael mumbled. “Of course it is. Why else would you bring me here?”

Justin got out of the car and walked to the front door. Michael followed him; he was looking everywhere except where he was walking and almost slipped on an icy piece of slate. Justin grabbed his arm to keep him from falling on his ass. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key. The key that Brian had given him. The key with the gold key ring that read “Britin” on one side and “Sunshine’s key” on the other.

The door creaked open. Justin walked in, but Michael remained on the steps, peering inside as though it was a haunted house and he was afraid a ghost might pounce on him. Justin bit his lip to keep from laughing; he was determined not to betray a single emotion, not even amusement. He took Michael’s sleeve and pulled him through the doorway.

Darkness. Nothing but darkness. Justin led Michael slowly from one huge room to the next as though he was giving Michael a tour of a museum. The floor groaned under their feet. Otherwise, there was only silence.

“This is the house,” Michael said eventually as though he needed to speak the words before his observation could become reality.

Justin said nothing.

In the kitchen, Michael ran his fingers over the black marble counter tops. Brian and the architect had been there; Justin saw that the dust had been disturbed here and there, and there was a handprint that Justin knew belonged to Brian. No one in the world had hands like Brian’s.

Michael opened all the cabinets and the fridge. Even the microwave oven. Justin had no idea why or what he might be looking for. From the kitchen they moved on to the two dining rooms, the living room, the library, the sitting room and the parlor where he and Brian had made love that first night.

“You’re going to have to buy a shitload of furniture to fill up all this space,” Michael said. “Christ, why does anyone need _two_ dining rooms _and_ a kitchen nook?”

Justin didn’t say a word. He merely led Michael to the stairs. They walked through the six bedrooms, five bathrooms, the “sewing room” another library and a room that was obviously intended to be a nursery.

“Jesus,” Michael breathed. “Do you think Brian’s going to want a kid, I mean a kid other than Gus?”

Justin didn’t answer him even though he’d wondered the same thing. He could hear his own voice saying how much he wanted one followed by the more recent memory of _I’ll do anything to make him happy_. Of course, Brian saw a child in their future! Justin hoped to God it wouldn’t be like the horse with Brian showing up one day with a pregnant surrogate mother in tow.

 _Don’t worry, it’s yours Sunshine. I saved a condom_.

Justin shuddered, and Michael raised his eyebrows. Justin quickly rearranged his expression into total expressionlessness. 

“He does, doesn’t he? Brian wants to have a kid. Holy fuck! Do _you_ want to have a kid? Judging from the way you are with Gus and J.R., I bet you do. You love kids.” It wasn’t an accusation. It was just a statement.

Justin had to turn away. He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed. What messages had he been sending Brian all these years? _I want to be totally monogamous? I want a huge house to play hostess in? I want a zillion babies? I want to live in the country? I want to play tennis and ride horses instead of playing pool at Woody’s and dancing at Babylon? I want flower gardens? I want to make love rather than fuck?_

 _I don’t like you the way you are? I want someone totally different?_ That’s what Brian must’ve been hearing. At least since Ethan . . .

_Jesus, Brian! You think I don’t love you? You think you sickened me? You think I won’t love you the way you are? That I can’t?_

_You hate yourself._ I've _made you hate yourself._

Justin clenched his fists so hard that his fingernails sank into his palms.

 _And now you’ve changed because you want to be with me. But you know it’s not working, don’t you? You know I’m not happy, so what do you do? You double down and by doing so, you hate yourself even more. You’ll do _anything_ , but you can’t tell what that “anything” is. I’m a mystery to you. The only thing you think you know is that you’re not good enough for me . . . and that you never will be._

Justin wanted to cry or scream - or both.

Michael leaned against a window sill in the enormous master bedroom and let his head fall forward as though he was too weary to hold it up any longer.

Justin cleared his throat and gestured that they should go back downstairs.

Michael shook his head without raising it. “If you’re going to take me outside, I don’t need to go. I saw everything from the window. I’ve seen enough. I want to go home.” His voice was hollow.

But Justin wasn’t fucking done. He grabbed Michael’s arm and dragged him out of the room toward the stairs that led up to the attic. He, himself, hadn’t been up there, but he was sure it would be just as huge as everything else, perhaps even divided into more rooms.

Michael was like a rag doll. All resistance seemed to have left his body. When they reached the landing outside the attic door, Justin took a deep breath and pushed it open.

And that’s when he broke down and started stomping around and swearing like a lunatic off his Haldol.

The attic was, indeed, huge, and unlike the rest of the house, it was flooded with light. There were windows everywhere, skylights that were obviously brand new. And there were benches full of drawers and tilted work tables and three different sized easels.

“Wow!” Michael gasped. “Holy shit!” He spun around to look at Justin when Justin punched a hole in the new drywall. “Hey! What the fuck?” he shouted. “This is obviously for you! Why’d you do that?”

“Because it _is_ for me!” Justin yelled.

Michael, poor simple Michael, just looked at him with incomprehension.

“Don’t you like it?” he asked, sounding perplexed.

“Of course, I do!” Justin yelled back.

“Look,” Michael said, clutching at straws. “Maybe he’ll buy a place in the city, too, or keep the loft. Maybe this’ll just be a weekend place. I mean, c’mon, the commute will drive him out of his mind. He can’t possibly mean for you guys to actually _live_ here. That’d be insane. I mean, this place is fucking _huge_!”

Justin just looked at him. He’d already revealed too much. _Way_ too much.

Meanwhile, the setting sun filled the room with pinks and golds and oranges and a million blends of colors Justin hadn’t even imagined before. It was so beautiful it gave him goosebumbs.

This was going to be another of Brian’s “surprises.”

Justin had to break up with him. Things were getting wildly out of hand. Either that or commit him to an asylum. Hell, he should probably commit them _both_ to an asylum!

“Please tell me you love him,” Michael said. “Please, Justin.” He grabbed Justin’s shoulders, but Justin looked past him into the middle distance.

“Did he tell you that he won’t let Linds and Mel take Gus to Canada with them?” Michael said. “What’s he thinking? What’s he imagining is going to happen?”

“Imagining” was exactly the right word. What was Brian “imagining” about _any_ of this? Or was he acting on some kind of weird auto-pilot of self-loathing?

Then Michael, poor befuddled devoted Michael, said it:

“He’s really fucked up, isn’t he? I mean about the bombing?”

He looked at Justin pleadingly. “Please,” he said. “Say something. _Anything!_ ”

They stood there staring at each other for what felt like forever. Tears welled in Michael’s eyes and then, as though a dam had burst, he started talking.

“When he came to the house . . . he was drunk . . . for the first time ever, I thought ‘how pathetic’ . . . It’s like I . . . like I was seeing his dad. I told him that no one could love him. No one would want to be with him. That you left him because of him – because of who he was. And then . . . and then he just left. And I . . . I heard rumors about some kind of competition or something, about how he was making a fool out of himself . . . And was fucked-up all the time . . . And now . . . Fuck! . . . I’d always told him I’d love him no matter what . . . that he could fuck a zillion guys and do drugs every night and be an asshole . . . but it wasn’t true, was it? I stopped loving him. And so did you. And then . . . and then we both almost died. And other people _did_ die. People he’d always put down. People like Dusty and the Gay and Lesbian Center folks . . . the ‘Stepford’ fags. Everything and everybody he thought were lame. We were all on the front line, and he was the coward running away, thinking about nothing but his dick. We weren’t the pathetic ones that night. _He_ was . . . And now . . . and now he’s trying to do what he thinks is right . . . except . . . except it’s too late to bring back the dead. And he knows it and he thinks we hate him and he hates himself and he hates the kind of gay man he represents and he wants to change except he can’t . . . And I . . . I don’t know if I really want him to . . . because who’s he . . . who’s he going to be if he’s not Brian Kinney?”

“Breathe,” Justin said. He reached out and took Michael’s hand, squeezing it hard with gratitude. Maybe Michael really _did_ know Brian better than he did. Because it was true. Every single fucking word was true.

Just as he’d thought he’d realized minutes earlier that he _had_ to break up with Brian, now he knew, above and beyond everything . . . more than anything he’d ever known or thought he knew, that his place was by Brian’s side.

And it was time Brian knew it.

Story continued with Chapter 11


	10. Weird giant mammoth self-indulgent author's note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know this is bizarre, but I think it's necessary because I feel like readers are giving up on this story, not only way too soon, but for the wrong reasons. Not that I'm going to stop writing it and posting it here. I just wanted to reply to some recurrent criticism in my signature long-winded way.

I’ve heard back from several readers that they don’t get/like this story. Instead of writing long multiple responses, I figured I’d just write an in-depth author’s note. The criticisms boil down to not liking my portrayals of Brian and Justin. I guess my portrayals may seem harsh if you don’t know the basic premise I’m working with (which I don’t think I made sufficiently clear in the beginning, so here it is now.)

I really _really_ don’t like Justin in season 5 (which I watched numerous times beginning to end before I started writing this story). I hardly recognize him. He basically says he’s come back to Pittsburgh from L.A. to be with Brian and moves in with him, but just weeks into living together,* he starts complaining about Brian’s lifestyle in terms that strike me as fairly sanctimonious. The scene in chapter 2 of my story in which Brian is trying on all his shirts comes straight from the show. In that scene, Brian says that Justin doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t. Brian is going through a serious aging crisis, which should be no surprise given Brian’s abject phobia of aging. Yes, he’s doing it in his own frustrating, self-destructive Brian-like way, but Justin doesn’t even try to understand what’s going on. All he knows is that he’s decided (at the age of 21) that he wants what Michael and Ben have – a house, a family, etc. It’s a collision course that results in an ultimatum. And, yes, Brian does become a bit of an asshole with all his relentless “Stepford fags” shtick, but if Justin knew him as well as we’ve been told he does in every previous episode, Justin would’ve tried to look behind Brian’s outrage. And if he had, I think what he would’ve found (at least imo) is fear. Brian doesn’t just see his friends’ decisions to “settle down” as their own personal decisions, but as a rejection not only of an authentic queer lifestyle, but of Brian himself. Brian feels like he’s losing the few friends he has to this “heteronormative” world that he so fears and hates. And then Justin starts to want it! I feel terribly sorry for Brian; whether or not it makes sense, he feels like he’s on the cusp of losing _everything_ \- from his own beauty and youth, to his Liberty Ave. lifestyle, to the people he loves. Poor Brian is _terrified_ before the bombing. And he’s grieving what to him is an earthshattering loss because even Brian isn’t sure who he is if he’s not “Brian Fucking Kinney” center of every gay man’s fantasies. He’s lost and foundering, and I don’t see Justin even trying to understand. (Which pisses me off.)

So Justin gives him what is essentially an ultimatum: Start acting more like “a real couple” (i.e. Michael and Ben) or I’m out of here. Predictably (because how else is Brian Kinney going to respond when backed into a corner) Brian fails, and Justin leaves. At that point, I truly believe that Justin had no intention of ever trying to get back together with Brian. Which is fine, Justin’s allowed to make a choice about how he wants to live his life, but what drives me crazy is that every time the subject of the end of his and Brian’s relationship comes up, Justin seems so blasé and nonchalant about it.** In other words, Justin doesn’t seem broken-up; in fact, he seems to be relieved to a certain degree. And, what’s more, I see his decision not to intervene in the fight between Michael and Brian as a tacit agreement with Michael’s assessment of Brian being nothing but an aging club boy who anyone in their right mind would leave. Jennifer even has to come to Brian’s defense in one scene because Justin is so disdainful of Brian and his and Brian’s previous relationship.

And don’t get me started on Justin’s stick up his ass about his mother and Tucker’s relationship (as stupid and random as that relationship might be plot-wise). The hypocrisy is so thick you could cut it with a knife and spread it on toast. It almost seems like the writers went out of their way to make Justin look like a complete dick.

So that’s how I see season 5, pre-bombing. But I don’t like not liking Justin, so I’m writing this story to try to understand/explain what might’ve been going on in his head to make him seem like such a prick on the surface. So, I decided to write a story in which Justin isn’t a prick, he’s just very confused and conflicted. The poor kid has never had a chance to live on his own and have his own life. He thinks he doesn’t want Brian’s lifestyle, but Brian’s lifestyle is pretty much all he’s known until the focus on families, etc. with Prop 14 comes along and all of a sudden everything is about marriage and babies, so he swings to that. He doesn’t know anything in-between because he’s never experienced it. What he really needs is to be on his own. In my story, when Daphne says he needs to get out of Pittsburgh and find a life of his own, she’s voicing my own opinion. Only after being on his own for a while, can he and Brian come back together again. 

So Justin as I’m writing him is residually angry at Brian for just letting him walk out the door. He doesn’t know what he wants or who he even is (none of us did when we were 21!). He’s confused, he’s lonely. And no one’s in their best form when they’re like that, so, yes, Justin isn’t always super likeable in my story, but I’ll take inner turmoil over the show’s weird, distant portrayal of him. I get my Justin. I don’t get the show’s Justin. I’m much more sympathetic to _too much_ emotion, then too little. Especially when it comes to a relationship that is the focal point of the whole show.

As for Brian . . . well, the important thing to remember about Brian is that I’m only showing Justin’s perception of things, and he doesn’t know exactly what’s going on with Brian, and he’s trying to figure it out. Brian goes from letting him walk out the door to declaring his love and proposing marriage. By anyone’s measure, that’s just weird. Yes, we know as viewers of the show that Brian has always loved Justin, so the declaration was a long-overdue statement of the obvious, but I think Brian left Justin unsure when he let Justin leave. So, Justin as I’m writing him is not 100% thrilled with the proposal because it’s so out-of-character. He knows something’s off (and so do we, the viewers).

Unlike Justin, I get Brian in season 5. Everything he does makes complete sense to me. He makes a decision after the bombing that the most important thing for him is to have Justin in his life, and he thinks he can accomplish that by giving Justin everything he thinks Justin wants. Which, yes, is wildly romantic on one hand, but it’s also problematic. He unilaterally decided where they’re going to live, he unilaterally decides their marriage is going to be monogamous. He decided to change himself in all the ways that he thinks Justin wants him to change, except he never bothers to ask Justin. And then, we know from the show, Brian grows to resent their engagement because he believes, that by wanting a real relationship, Justin wants to cuddle rather than fuck (which, of course, is symbolic for “queer” versus “hetero” lifestyles). And poor Justin is all WTF? Because it was Brian who’d told himself he had to change everything he was, not Justin. Just like Justin had predicted when he turned down Brian’s first proposal, Brian had set himself an impossible task that he’d inevitably fail at.

But Brian is just being Brian when he buys Britin and puts the loft and Babylon on the market. There’s never been any thing like middle ground in Brian’s life. It’s all or nothing. So instead of telling Justin he loves him and have them sit down and talk about what a relationship might look like for them going forward, he’s suddenly MARRIAGE! COUNTRY HOME! MONOGAMY! It’s the same kind of grand gesture Brian is known for, and it’s wonderful and romantic and all that, but it’s also unrealistic and, seen from a negative POV, even manipulative. What if Justin really _didn’t_ want to marry him? How could he have said no in the face of all Brian had sacrificed and was willing to sacrifice? Not only is Brian older and wealthier and more experienced, he’s a force of friggin nature who is used to giving his all to get what he wants. And in this case, he’s under the impression that he thinks he knows what Justin wants, but how can he when poor Justin, himself, doesn’t even know what he wants?

On top of all this, I also think Brian (and Justin, as well as everyone in his/her own way) was traumatized by the bombing. Michael in chapter 9 of my story basically voices my opinion about what happened with Brian. People died and were seriously wounded at Babylon, which is basically his home, his pre-Britin Britin. And those people were people that he’d expressed nothing but contempt for. They were only at Babylon that night because they’re fighting for gay civil rights, while meanwhile Brian’s headed to Sydney to fuck his brains out. I think Brian’s smart enough to know that he’d made a fool out of himself with the whole fuckathon thing with Brandon, and he’s still grasping for straws of dignity (whatever that might mean for him). He feels terribly guilty for just being who he is (which is very sad imo). He’s trying to change – not necessarily into a “Stepford fag,” but into someone different than he’s been, something authentically Brian. But before the bombing, he’s behaving as he always has even though we know that he is getting tired of that life. I think the bombing woke him up in many good ways, but trauma is still trauma. I think much of Brian’s extravagance and total overnight rejection of who he was comes from that trauma. Yes, he’s had his eyes opened, but his response to having his eyes opened isn’t necessarily healthy. We know Brian is changing and that he wants to change, but we also know Brian needs to remain Brian in many ways. And we want him to (at least I do). I don’t see a happy, healthy Brian living in a country manor. I see him living in the city in a place he and Justin choose together. I don’t see a happy, healthy Brian being strictly monogamous (because I also don’t equate monogamy with growing-up or being in love; I see it as an unnatural, unsustainable societal convention). I don’t see a happy, healthy Brian just surrendering Babylon to big box stores.

My idea of a happy, healthy Brian is somewhere in the grey middle between who he’d been and who Michael has become. I also see a solid relationship between Brian and Justin occurring only when Brian realizes Justin has to be involved in every single major choice they have to make about the direction they’re going and how they want to live their lives.

*pant gasp pant*

The criticism I’ve received says I don’t see Brian as capable of changing because I reject the idea that buying Britin and doing all sorts of extravagant things for Justin is healthy. That’s not true. I see Brian changing all the time over the course of the show, and I can picture him evolving at his own pace into a more “traditional” (for lack of a better word) partner. If Justin hadn’t left him, I can see him slowly becoming more and more focused on their relationship and moving forward, but he wasn’t going to go from the lifestyle he’d maintained for more than a decade to being like Michael and Ben. Justin was being totally unrealistic when he’d said that’s what he wanted. So, yes, I definitely see Brian being able to change. I also see him as starting to really, genuinely want to change. I just don’t see him changing as completely as he did – I don’t see that as realistic, sustainable or even desirable.

So many Brian/Justin stories seem to ignore whole chunks of season 5, which I understand because so much of season 5 is so painful. Why write a story that makes people (and you, yourself) unhappy? If anyone reading this is also a Harry/Draco fan, read my novel “Danse Russe,” in which I systematically dismember a soul-mate relationship. I love romance, but only when it makes sense. Other fanfic writers will write happier versions of Brian/Justin, and that’s fine, and if that’s what you want to read then that’s fine and you have a zillion options to choose from, but I want to stick to canon, and the canon is sad and heartbreaking in many ways. Which makes my stories sometimes sad and heartbreaking. That’s just how I like to write about things. An easy relationship is boring for me. It’s the ones that force people to fight and struggle and sometimes let go that interest me. That’s what you’re going to get when you read my stories. There are certainly no shortage of QaF writers who have a different approach. But variety is what makes a fandom interesting.

Now, please go back to reading and showering me with unambiguous love and adoration.

(Just kidding. Seriously. People in QaF take me way too seriously. I may take my writing seriously, but I’m really just a ham with a keyboard.)

* I take this timeline from the scene in which Brian and Justin are lying in bed with another couple they’ve just had a foursome with and the couple asks how long they’ve been together. Justin says “four years,” and Brian says “four weeks.” (Typical *g*).

** I’m talking about the scene involving Emmett and Deb while the three of them are handing out pamphlets, the scene involving his mother when they’re looking at his studio, and the scene in which he and Michael are moving the mattress into Justin’s place. You watch those scenes and you’d never believe Brian is the lost love of Justin’s life. I hate them!

Now back to the story with Chapter 11 . . .


	11. Atoning for Imagined Sins

Brian was napping when Justin came home after dropping Michael off. He must’ve been exhausted because he didn’t even roll over when Justin entered the bedroom and started undressing. Justin stood a moment looking down at him, his heart swelling painfully. Brian’s mouth was open slightly, and his hand was curled under his chin. It’d been a long time – not since Brian had had cancer – that Justin had watched him sleeping. Why had he stopped? Try as he might to think of a reason, he couldn’t . . . except what? Simple familiarity? But how does one ever grow too familiar with someone like Brian? Someone with so many layers, so many angles, so many hidden springs of emotion and thoughts – some profound and some ridiculous, but always his. One could spend a lifetime with him and still find something daily to amaze them.

Part of him had always known it: Brian had ruined him for all other lovers. No one would ever live up to the high-water marks of passion, of complicated experience, he and Brian had shared. Sure, it might be the death of him – this love. It might be the death of them _both_ , but fate had already written itself. Mere mortals, who were they to revise it?

“I can feel you watching me.”

A sleepy smile tugged at the corners of Brian's mouth, but his eyes remained closed. “Are you going to join me? Or are you trying to tell me that it’s only six and I should get my ass out of bed?”

“Seven,” Justin replied.

“Whatever.”

He chuckled low and deep when Justin lifted the duvet and slid in beside him. “Good. I really didn’t want to get up.” He rolled over so they were face to face. Brian’s eyes were hazy with sleep.

“Where were you?” he murmured, kissing Justin’s lips as he asked the question.

“Britin,” Justin replied without hesitation. “I took Michael to see it.”

All playfulness left Brian’s expression. “I thought you didn’t like it,” he said.

Justin took a deep breath. “I didn’t at first,” he said. “And I’m still not sure what I think. I wish you’d discussed things with me before just rushing out and buying it, but I understand why you did - at least I think I do. Just . . . just no more surprises, okay?”

He was tracing Brian’s beautiful mouth as he spoke. When he’d finished, Brian kissed his fingertip.

“There is one last surprise,” he said.

“I saw it,” Justin replied. “It’s amazing. Like everything else you’ve given me.”

Brian smiled one of his new uncomplicated smiles. “I want you to be happy,” he said.

“I know you do. I am happy.”

Brian’s smile turned into a frown. “Really? You haven’t seemed it.”

Justin kissed him softly. “I had some things I needed to work through,” he replied. “There’ve been a lot of changes in you – in us – after . . . after going so long with none.”

Brian nodded. “At least not changes that have been evident to anyone but me.”

Their mouths came together again, this time open. There was hunger behind their kiss, but Justin wasn’t done talking. He pulled back after a minute and was surprised that Brian didn’t protest.

Yet another change. But this one Justin liked. A lot.

 _See_ , he wanted to say, _I didn’t need a house or stables or even a studio. I needed_ this _. Just this_.

“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt you,” he said. “It’s just . . . it’s just I didn’t get it. But now I think I do.”

“What’s so hard to understand about ‘I love you’?” Brian said, smiling, his mouth kissed and his eyes full of pupil.

Indeed. What was so hard to understand?

“I’ll do anything, Justin. I want you with me. I want you to be happy. I’ve been . . . I’ve been an idiot for so long.”

Justin brushed his cheek with his knuckles. “Ssshhh,” he whispered. “You haven’t been an idiot. You’ve just been who you are . . .”

Too late he realized his answer was _exactly_ what he shouldn’t say. Fuck!

Brian flinched and closed his eyes, squeezing them tightly shut. Justin watched helplessly as he swallowed several times, obviously trying to bring his emotions back under control. He pressed a hard kiss against Brian’s lips.

“Hey,” he said. “I didn’t mean . . .”

But Brian had rolled onto his back and was staring up at the ceiling.

“Of course, you did,” he said wearily. 

“Brian,” Justin said, reaching for his shoulder and trying to turn him back over, but Brian’s whole body was stiff.

His options were limited: Get annoyed and get up or employ a time-honored tactic.

Justin rose onto his elbow and began kissing Brian’s jaw and throat, down to his collarbone, while his hand rubbed Brian’s belly in widening circles. It took a tense minute or two before Brian sighed, and his body suddenly relaxed completely. Justin seized the opportunity and turned Brian’s head so he could kiss him and, at the same moment, slid his hand down and wrapped his fingers around Brian’s cock. It was only half-hard but getting harder by the second. When Justin reached lower and cupped his balls, rolling his testicles in his palm, Brian moaned into their kiss and spread his legs.

“My tits,” Brain gasped, and Justin smiled. There was a time when Brian would’ve rather died then ask Justin to play with his nipples. Instead, he used to grab Justin by the hair and drag Justin’s head to his chest. And, yes, that’d often been hot as hell, but so was this. Brian asking, revealing himself, asking to be pleasured in a certain way.

Justin slid down until he could kiss Brian’s chest, wet open-mouthed kisses all over as Brian arched his back, trying to position himself just right. When Justin finally kissed his right nipple, Brian groaned, tipped his head back and drew up his knees, letting his legs fall to the side, splaying them open. He cupped the back of Justin’s head, holding him still gently but firmly while Justin sucked and licked and nipped. When he moved his hands from Brian’s balls to his cock, he felt that the tip was wet. Using his thumb, he smeared the wetness over the silky skin of his cockhead, never once ceasing his stimulation of Brian’s nipple.

“Hhhmm, multitasking,” Brian murmured. He reached down and moved Justin’s hand from his cock to his other nipple.

“Could come like this,” he groaned as Justin tugged on it and rolled it between his fingertips. 

Justin lifted his head. “I know you could, but don’t,” he said. “I want to ride you.”

Brian huffed out a breathless laugh. “Well, you better get to it. My balls are tightening.”

Justin quickly moved to grab a condom, open the package and roll it onto Brian’s cock. It was lubed, so all he needed to do was straddle Brian’s hips, hold Brian’s cock upright and sit down, letting himself be impaled by gravity. When he was fully seated, he let his head fall back, riding through the initial pain and sense of too-much fullness until Brian started moving his hips.

“Oh!” he breathed, letting his body relax so it rolled with Brian’s quickening thrusts. He felt Brian grab his hips, trying to move him up and down. He was farther gone than Justin had thought. He wet his finger in his mouth and reached back, feeling for Brian’s asshole, and, when he found it, pushed it in just past the tight ring of muscle. Brian’s hips instantly started heaving, and his upward thrusts turned erratic and uneven. It was all Justin could do to keep his fingertip inside him.

“Gonna come,” Brian groaned. The words were barely out of his mouth before he did. Justin felt his asshole clench rhythmically, and he pushed his finger in even deeper.

“I’m gonna shoot again. Jerk yourself off,” Brian commanded, his voice hoarse. “I want to watch you make yourself come.”

Justin was used to “multitasking,” as Brian had put it. He knew it was one of the things that made him a damn good lover. He continued fingering Brian while he stroked himself from his balls up to the head of his cock, moving slowly on the way down and fast on the way up, ending each stroke with a sharp, almost painful, tug, his fingers catching on the ridge of his glans.

“So good,” Brian murmured. “So _fucking_ good.”

And it was. Both his and Brian’s eyes were fixed on Justin’s cock, watching the head go from pink to red to dark crimson. Brian’s thrusts sped up, punctuated by grunts each time he drove his cock in as deep as he could.

“Justin!” he cried as he came, his eyes squeezed shut. It was the first time he’d ever called out Justin’s name.

Brian was still hard when Justin’s climax slammed into him, blinding him for an instant so that when the pleasure subsided, he felt momentarily bewildered. It was Brian’s throaty laugh that grounded him again. They grinned at each other.

Still straddling Brian’s hips, Justin lay down against Brian’s chest, sighing when Brian started stroking his hair. He turned his head and kissed Brian’s chest.

“Do you think I can satisfy you for the rest of your life?” Brian asked after a few minutes.

Justin laid still and quiet. Could he? He kissed the damp skin of Brian’s chest again.

“I don’t know,” he answered honestly.

The words had the same effect on Brian as a punch in the gut. Justin sighed. This honesty thing was going to be difficult. Brian’s breathing grew panic-attack shallow. Justin propped himself up so he could look down at Brian’s face. Brian flinched and turned his head aside.

“What am I doing wrong?” he asked. “Tell me. Why is nothing about me enough?”

Justin would’ve smiled an ironic smile if he didn’t know it would hurt Brian even more. How many times had he thought the exact same fucking thing over the past four years? Karma. He hadn’t believed in the concept until now.

“Why hadn’t _I_ been enough?” he said, his voice gentle but firm. “Why’d you need to trick every day, often right under my nose? Why weren’t the meals I cooked for you enough to bring you home for a mere couple of hours in the evening between your two true loves – Kinnetik and Babylon? Why was our bed never more enticing than a dance floor? Why were my heartbeats never as meaningful as the thumpa thumpa you craved so much? The tricks, the drugs, the music, the whole Brian Kinney image was more important than anything I offered – or would’ve if you’d but asked?”

Halfway through his “answer,” Brian had gone completely still. Only the compulsive swallowing gave away the extent of his distress.

“It wasn’t like that,” he finally said. “It wasn’t you – it was _never_ about you and whether or not you were enough. It was about me, about me staying alive. About me being myself . . . about the self I’m now ashamed of – and should have stopped being a long time ago.”

Justin felt his heart break. He wanted to contradict Brian, but wasn’t that what he'd been saying since forever? That Brian should be ashamed of himself – of his single-minded obsession with a mere fragment of what life had to offer? To contradict what Brian had said would be tantamount to a lie.

“Changing needn’t involve shame,” he said.

Brian nodded, but he still wasn’t looking at Justin. Justin’s words were lost on him, submerged and silenced by self-loathing.

“The bombing wasn’t your fault,” Justin said.

“I know,” Brian replied wearily. “I . . . I didn’t place it or set it off, but there was enough hatred in me that I might as well have. I hated the Stepford Fags. The Monti’s and Eli’s of this world. I hated the folks at the fucking Gay and Lesbian Center, and I’m talking real hate, Justin, not hyperbole. I hated their sanctimony, their rejection of queerness, their sycophantic worship of the straight world. And I hated even more the fact that they’d taken Michael from me – and, Jesus fucking Christ, I _hated_ how you’d started to crave it and in the process reject me. I hated how ‘growing up’ had to entail renunciation of all I was – of all I’d been. I hated the way no one could see – or had ever tried to see – that it wasn’t just about ‘getting my dick sucked’ and having an orgasm. It was about being _free_ to get my dick sucked. It was about being young and beautiful enough that men would want to suck my dick. It was about not caring if people had a fucking problem with me getting my dick sucked. Getting my dick sucked was a thumb in the eye to the straight world and all those fags who pined for it. Getting my dick sucked was about being a man – a _free_ man. Getting my dick sucked was my way of honoring my predecessors who’d fought the war so I could have my dick sucked without getting arrested, without breaking a law. Getting my dick sucked was the way I celebrated men, the way I celebrated being born queer and not a fucking heterosexual drone.”

It was Justin’s turn to go completely still. He’d ever considered even one of the things Brian had just said. He doubted that anyone ever had.

But did knowing it change anything? Maybe it helped Justin understand the past, but what about now? What about the future?

“And now?” he whispered.

To Justin’s surprise, Brian wrapped his arms around him and held him so tight that it was hard to breathe.

“Now I want to be free of the hatred,” he said. “I want to feel free to give you everything you want. The next stage of the war for queerdom is what I want to give you: marriage, a home, a family, commitment, and I can’t if I still hate all of those things. I want to stop hating so that I can make you happy, so that I can be the partner you’ve always wanted me to be.”

He rolled Justin onto his back and captured Justin’s gaze with his own. It was fierce and determined.

“I love you,” he said. “With all my heart. I want you to be proud of me – you and Michael and Deb and Lindsay and the boys. I want my son to be proud to call me his father. I want to stop being an embarrassment, someone motivated by fear instead of hope. I want to be everything you need, everything you want. I want to make your dreams come true. I want to make up for every day I didn’t say ‘I love you.’ And I’m _trying_ , Justin. I’m trying so fucking hard. Can’t you _see_ that?”

Now it was Justin’s turn to swallow and keep swallowing as he fought back tears . . . because they were not tears of joy. They were tears of helplessness. Tears of grief.


	12. The Vanity of an Ancient King

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, everyone is all over the map, but remember this is season 5, and in the end, Justin leaves Brian. The show made it seem like it was almost a whim, so I'm trying to explain why it wasn't - why it was the result of a great deal of emotional turmoil. I know this isn't easy to read. I had to stop writing this several times and do something else because it was making me weepy.

“Brian Kinney.” Justin remembered the first time he’d heard those words. It was the night they’d first met, and they were at the hospital – him, Brian and Michael. Gus had just been born, and Brian was higher than high. Justin had felt overwhelmed; the night had been surreal to the say the least. He’d planned to go to Liberty Avenue for maybe an hour or so and just check things out. He’d taken the bus, so no one – not even Daphne despite the fact he’d told his mom he was staying with her – knew where he was. He’d just planned to walk around and then go home. He’d never planned on talking to anyone, let alone go home with them! And now there he was, trailing behind two 29 year-old men as they’d walked arm-in-arm through the hospital parking garage, singing and laughing and completely oblivious to the 17 year-old kid’s continued presence.

“Who’d ever imagine it,” Michael had said. “Brian Kinney, a father.”

Brian had laughed and held Michael still in a headlock so he could give him a noogie. Michael wriggled free and shoved Brian with an irritable “Ow!” which only made Brian laugh harder as he skipped backwards beyond Michael’s reach. 

“Don’t worry, Mikey,” he’d said. “Marlon Brando had fifteen kids, and he’s still a living legend. I only have one . . .”

“So far.”

“That I know of.”

Michael had suddenly frozen as though he’d been stunned. Brian stopped and looked back at him with a frown on his face.

“Holy shit,” Michael had said in a disbelieving voice.

“Holy shit what?” Brian had asked.

“Holy shit. You’re a father, Brian! You’re a _father_!”

Brian had started to look annoyed. “Yeah, and . . .”

“And you’re going to have to stop drinking and doing drugs and tricking and hanging out at Woody’s and . . .”

Brian had laughed, throwing his arm around Michael’s shoulders. “Now, now, Mikey,” he’d said. “Let’s not get apocalyptic. Do you think Jack changed after mom had Claire and me? No siree, I intend to uphold the fine family tradition of not giving a shit. C’mon, cheer up.” He’d pinched Michael’s cheek. “No one’s said I have to stop being Brian Kinney, and I don’t intend to.”

Michael’s weak laugh had turned more robust when Brian ran ahead and did a wobbly cartwheel (a preview of the night to come). He’d turned to look at them as he walked backwards, his arms spread wide.

“The tides need a moon. A compass needs the North Pole, and Pittsburgh needs Brian Fucking Kinney! I’ve been the man behind the face . . .”

“. . . more like the man behind the dick,” Michael had said, still laughing.

“The face, the cock, whatever,” Brian had said with a self-satisfied smirk. “My point is . . .”

Michael had trotted to catch up with him, and then they’d stopped and just looked at each other. Michael had reached out and rested his hands on Brian’s shoulders.

“The point is,” Michael had said, his voice serious. “The point is you’re Brian Kinney. Whatever else you are – an ad exc., a father – it doesn’t matter. You’ll always be Brian Kinney first and foremost. Nothing can change that.”

Brian had held Michael’s solemn gaze until Justin had caught up with them, and when he did, Brian grinned like the cat that’d got the cream. He’d grabbed Justin by the collar and pulled him close.

“So,” he’d growled in Justin’s ear, “ready to be fucked by a living legend?”

Justin could remember how the excitement had flared like a fever in his chest, drowning out the frantically squeaking voice of reason in his head. Hell yes, he wanted to be fucked by this man! This man who seemed more than just a man . . . more like some kind of storybook hero, some fallen-to-earth deity. Powerful and too beautiful to look at head-on, like a high-wattage light bulb or . . . or the sun itself. Supremely confident, loved and desired by all, men _and_ women (Justin hadn’t missed the look on the blonde woman’s face while she watched him holding their baby). A smirking angel, Lucifer before he fell, more deserving of worship than any quarterback or movie star, crack cocaine in jeans and a wife-beater, an unshakeable habit on the verge of forming. A dream incarnate – a dream he’d been having before he even knew he was gay . . . before he’d even been _born_.

 _I’ve seen the face of God_ , he’d told Daphne the next morning. _His name is Brian Kinney_.

Now Brian Kinney . . . or rather the man who had been “Brian Kinney” was sitting on the foot of the bed with his face in his hands. He was silent, but Justin saw his shoulders shaking. It was four o’clock in the morning. He reminded Justin of a sculpture he’d seen at the National Gallery of Art when his parents took him to Washington, D.C. when he was in junior high. A man dressed in a king’s robe, sitting with his head in his hands, obviously weeping, while at his feet laid a broken crown.

And then he’d thought of the ruined Babylon – a place Brian visited as often as he visited Britin. An optimistic onlooker might interpret it as Brian saying farewell to his past and hello to his future. But Justin didn’t see things like that. To him it seemed like Brian was a ghost evicted from its ancestral home and searching in desperation for a new place to haunt.

It was April ninth. They were getting married in less than a week. The date, Babylon, the image of a deposed king, they all reminded Justin of a song on a mixed tape he used to love before it got lost sometime during his wandering, duffle bag years.

A stone’s throw from Jerusalem  
I walked a lonely mile in the moonlight  
And though a million stars were shining  
My heart was lost on a distant planet  
That whirls around the April moon  
Whirling in an arc of sadness  
I’m lost without you  
I’m lost without you  
Though all my kingdoms have turned to sand  
And fallen in the sea  
I’m mad about you  
I’m mad about you . . . 

They say a city in the desert lies  
The vanity of an ancient king  
But the city lies in broken pieces  
Where the wind howls and the vultures sing.  
These are the works of man  
This is the sum of our ambitions . . .  
Now with every prison blown to dust  
My enemies walk free  
Still I’m mad about you  
I’m mad about you 

Brian wasn’t “without him” but the lyrics still fit. He wasn’t without Justin; he was without _himself_ , and “mad” was the perfect word to describe what he’d become.

Justin pretended he was still asleep. Brian wouldn’t want him to know that, within spitting distance of getting married, he was still crying his heart out. Grieving. Grieving over the death of “Brian Kinney.”

 

And as for his “enemies”? Justin hadn’t understood before, but now he did. The trick Brian had told him about while he was trying on all those shirts that night, the trick who’d turned him down – he was an enemy as was the man who’d stolen him. Every man who didn’t stare at him was Brian Kinney’s enemy. Every man who didn’t succumb to his gaze was his enemy. Every man who didn’t approach him in the backrooms or at the baths were his enemies. Ever potential client he’d wooed without a signed contract as a result was his enemy. Anyone, gay or straight, whose breath didn’t quicken at the sight of him was his enemy. Brian Kinney had always got what he wanted, but Brian? Just plain old Brian? Without Brian Kinney, Brian was just a man like any other. A man occasionally desired and occasionally ignored. A man occasionally successful at his endeavors and occasionally not. A man who some coveted and others shrugged off. A man like any other.

 _Finally some competition_ , Justin had said. He’d known at the time that his words would chafe against Brian’s ego – or rather Brian Kinney’s ego – but he hadn’t understood the import of Brian’s words or the disbelieving awe in Brian’s voice when he told Justin he’d been turned down by a trick. It wasn’t just about competition. Brian was losing his power. The curtain was being drawn aside. The super hero crippled by his kryptonite.

Brian Kinney was turning into Brian. And no one wants just Brian. Just Brian was just another face in the crowd, another voice in a cacophony of voices. To anyone else, it would seem like Brian was just becoming human, and they’d see that as a good thing. But not Brian. To be human was to die. Inside the nesting doll that was Brian Kinney was nothing but a sad, angry kid terrified of the world.

Justin’s eyes filled with tears. He never thought he’d mourn for “Brian Kinney,” and he was surprised that he did.

As he watched, Brian raised his head and looked at the palms of his hands, closing them into fists and then opening them again as though they were prosthetics and he was learning how to use them. The action seemed to fascinate him because he did it over and over. It reminded Justin of all the times he’d caught Brian staring at his face in the mirror as though a stranger were reflected there.

Brian rose to his feet, looking like every joint in his body was as stiff and sore as an old man’s. Slowly, he walked around the loft picking up random things, scrutinizing them and then putting them back. It was as though he was in a pawn store looking to buy something. When he passed the couch, he ran his fingers down the length of its back, seeming to assess a value known only to himself.

This was Brian, and Justin was going to be married to him within days.

He couldn’t bear to watch Brian any longer so he closed his eyes. What sprang immediately to his mind was not an image of their perfect wedding, nor Britin, nor the horse and the new Porsche SUV, it was the glimpse of New York he’d seen from the window of the plane that time years ago when he’d run away from Pittsburgh. Vast – as vast as the Amazon and just as easy to lose yourself in. He remembered the excitement that had made him dizzy for a moment. He remembered forgetting Brian Kinney for a full five minutes. He remembered the strange sense of coming home. He remembered the lightning strike of adrenalin and the sizzle of knowing – really truly knowing – that he was where he belonged even if, later on, he hadn’t dared to venture forth from the hotel . . .

. . . and then Brian Kinney found him and fucked him and stuffed him into his Jeep. Oddly, Justin had felt less like he was being taken home than like he was being smuggled away. 

He must’ve drifted off to sleep because he was awakened when Brian lifted the duvet and slid in beside him. He kept his eyes closed, but he nonetheless could feel Brian watching him, and then he felt gentle fingertips touch his face and lips kiss his forehead.

What was Brian thinking? Justin was alarmed to realize he didn’t have a clue.

“Beautiful” Brian had called him that afternoon during their final fittings and then he’d playfully admonished Justin for punctuating his “I do” with a question mark. Justin had laughed and assured him that when the time came, when they said their vows in front of their family and friends, there’d be no doubt about his intention.

Had he lied? Or was it merely a hope that saying it would make him believe it.

 _I can paint here in Pittsburgh just as easily as I can paint in New York_ , he’d told Lindsay, and she’d given him a small, unconvincing smile.

And then, after a long silence during which they finished packing all the stuff from the attic, he’d said, _Besides, he needs me. After all he’s given me, how can I simply leave? Especially since you’re leaving too . . . and Michael. He might not be physically gone, but he has no clue what to do with a Brian who’s no longer Brian Kinney, especially since he was essential to building the whole Brian Kinney thing to begin with . . ._

 _As was I_ , Lindsay had uncharacteristically interrupted him. _Time and time again I told him what I thought Brian Kinney would do or wouldn’t do. No apologies, no regrets. I can’t even remember if those were his words or mine. Justin, I needed him to be Brian Kinney because . . . because it was easier that way. Brian Kinney I could keep a safe distance from; his world would never be mine. But Brian, just Brian? Human, fallible, vulnerable Brian? I’d love him even more than I did Brian Kinney, and it would destroy my marriage. I would destroy my and Brian's friendship. It might even destroy me._

 _You already are in love him, Lindsay_ , Justin had replied. They’d both been kneeling on the floor, and he’d reached out and rested a comforting hand on her knee. _I’ve known it for a long time_.

 _I was_ in _love with Brian Kinney_ , she replied. _But being “in love” and “loving” aren’t the same things – they’re not even close. I’ve always been “in love” with Brian Kinney, but Brian . . . Brian I would love and want to protect and take care of. Can’t you see that’s far more dangerous?_

Justin had merely swallowed. He couldn’t respond because suddenly Lindsay was on her feet, talking about how they should pack the sheets and blankets. What did Justin think: Should they put them in boxes like everything else or should they put them in heavy-duty garbage bags? But it didn’t matter. Justin had had no intention of answering her question anyway. Because the answer would break her heart – as certainly as it would Brian’s. He’d just realized, in the wake of her words, that like her, he’d been “in love” with Brian Kinney. But Brian? Not only did he not know Brian, he was pretty sure he didn’t love him. At least not as much as Brian would need him to.

If “Brian Kinney” really did die in the bombing of Babylon and would never rise from the ashes, then Justin had to go – for both their sakes. There was no way, given all his doubts and fears, that he could protect the damaged man who’d emerged from the smoking rubble whether he’d be protecting him from the world at large – or from the man himself.

And he knew neither “Brian Kinney” nor “just Brian” would want him to waste his life trying – and failing – to do so.


	13. The Wedding's Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chapter begins with the scene in 5-13 when Brian and Justin are in bed and Justin tries to initiate sex - an advance that Brian turns down in favor of "cuddling." Justin finally loses it, telling Brian that he is no longer recognizable as "Brian Kinney" - presumably because he wanted to be close in a non-sexual way rather than fuck. It's a long overdue confrontation. In return, Brian asks that if they weren't getting married, would Justin go to NYC? And Justin said quote "Hell no!" That's the end of the scene, but it's obvious that they had a long talk and decided to call the wedding off. The next scene has them announcing to everyone that they were not going to get married. All of that is canon. What is only could-be-canon, because it's not addressed by the show, is my decision to have Justin, not only agree to break the engagement and leave for NYC, but to also decide that he will not return and does not plan to see Brian again. So that's where the end of the chapter leaves off: Justin knowing he needs to tell Brian that they're over. The next chapter will contain that conversation as well as Justin's actually departure. After that, I am no longer constrained by canon. Woo-hoo! Liberated at last!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm warning you. This chapter is an emotional meat grinder. I am _really_ looking forward to the opportunity to get away from canon because canon is so FUBR - I blame it for rendering this chapter virtually incomprehensible. That's why there was such a huge gap in my posting schedule - I just could _not_ get this chapter to work the way I wanted it to. In the end, this was the best I could do. I hope it makes sense. If it doesn't, please comment and I'll try to answer your questions. 
> 
> I mean, here's what happens in canon: Justin doesn't want to marry Brian; Brian buys him a big house and Justin changes his mind; Justin becomes Mr. Wedding Planner and both he and Brian seem very happy; then Lindsay starts planting little seeds of doubt - especially in terms of what Justin would be giving up if he married Brian; meanwhile, Brian goes from being happy to being terribly unhappy with no real explanation except the Remsen ad and the mantra that "sex is out"; the stag party seems to be a breaking point for Brian; Justin confronts him about how weird he's become, and Brian needles the information out of Justin that the only reason he wouldn't go to NYC is because of their marriage (and - this is where my head-canon comes in - their relationship in its entirety); they decide to break the engagement but not, presumably, to break up their whole relationship; the next scene is the night before Justin leaves; Brian is not happy. End of canon. (Am I missing anything??)
> 
> The typical (and I don't mean that in a bad way!) post-show story has _Brian_ breaking up with Justin in order to set him free to pursue his dreams. In this story, it's the other way around. Justin is the one intending to end their relationship - in large part because of his very conflicted feelings (which this story has tried to document). He sees the kindest thing for both of them are clean slates. Justin sees Brian as (perhaps) stronger than he actually is, part of which is wishful thinking. A Brian who is no longer "Brian Kinney" freaks him out. Although, at the same time, he'd broken up with "Brian Kinney" and didn't really want to marry that version of Brian either. He also hears the ghost of "Brian Kinney" whispering in his ear about leaving and never looking back, about living his life for himself and not for someone else or even a relationship with that someone else. He's too close to pitying Brian, and he knows, that if Brian realized it, he'd be _furious_. Justin thinks he's doing them both a favor in many more ways than one.
> 
> So, that's the point this story is at now. The next chapter focuses on Justin's actual departure. Because of the holidays, I won't be posting it for about a week.

“Fuck New York! Fuck the art world!”

He heard the words leave his mouth just as he’d heard his earlier words about “Brian Kinney” fucking, sucking, rimming and ramming, but he couldn’t remember forming the actual sounds with his tongue. It was strange. Saying two things he knew were bald-faced lies less than twenty-four hours before their rehearsal dinner. 

“Just Brian” was looking at him with a little smile. “Just Brian” knew the wedding was off. “Just Brian” was right. But what “Just Brian” didn’t yet know was that it wasn’t merely the wedding that was going to be called off, it was everything. Everything Brian and Justin.

Justin had decided in the space of a five-minute conversation that he would go. It was more than simply a realization; it was an epiphany. And not only would he go, but he would not look back. “Brian Kinney” would be proud.

The only reason “Just Brian” was still smiling was because he didn’t know yet. He thought that by calling off the wedding, they were calling off the whole suburban hetero monogamy bullshit. That’s what he thought Justin had meant when he said “Brian Kinney fucks, sucks, rims, rams.” But “Just Brian” had never intended to end their relationship in its entirety. Justin knew that like he knew his own name.

“Just Brian” was about to get the shit kicked out of him. “Just Brian” was going to be left with a simple choice: sink or swim.

Justin kissed his mouth and got out of bed. The worst of it was that “Just Brian” was going to think Justin didn’t care about him. Nothing was more untrue. He was setting “Just Brian” free, just as much as he was setting himself free. “Just Brian” was miserable. “Just Brian” had set himself up to fail. “Just Brian” was never going to be a happy man.

Justin didn’t want to marry an unhappy man, and he _definitely_ didn’t want to be the reason for that unhappiness (and its resulting resentment), even if the wounds themselves were self-inflicted.

True, “Just Brian” would be unhappy for a while after Justin left, but that unhappiness would have a sell-by date. “Just Brian” may be vulnerable, but he was still a form of “Brian,” and he’d survive. Sooner or later he’d choose “swim” over “sink.”

Justin went to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. “Right?” he asked it. The mirror, being an inanimate object, did not answer back. 

 

The stag party had been Michael’s idea, and Justin had thought it was pretty much the dumbest idea that Michael had ever had, which was saying something. It was Justin’s opinion that Michael far too often believed what he thought and that many of his thoughts were little more than brain farts.

“It’ll be fun.”

“It’ll be awkward.”

“It’ll loosen him up for the wedding. He’s been so weird lately, talking about inevitabilities and stuff. The old Brian Kinney never saw _anything_ as inevitable, let alone ‘growing up.’”

“It’ll piss him off. You know he doesn’t like having things sprung on him.” 

“It’ll be a fitting farewell to his former life.”

“Christ. Great. Just what he needs.”

“C’mon, he’ll love it. We’ll get a stripper-slash-hustler so he can have his one last trick.”

“Really? Way to put him on the spot. And what do you mean by ‘one last trick?’”

“Who’s putting him on the spot? He’ll think it’s great.”

“He’ll think it’s a set-up.”

“A set-up for what?”

“A set-up to get him to be the old Brian Kinney. He’s not ‘Brian Kinney’ anymore.”

“He’s not actually getting married until Saturday. He has a few more days of being Brian Kinney left.”

“Great, let’s make sure we remind him of that.”

“God, when you’d get to be such a party pooper? Ben’s written some great toasts already.”

“I’m not a party pooper. I just think it’s a really bad idea, and I wish you’d listen to me.”

“I’ve known Brian longer than you have; I know he’ll have fun.”

“I don’t give a shit how long you’ve known him. I’m the one _marrying_ him. You knew Brian Kinney. I’m marrying ‘Just Brian.’”

“Huh? There’s a difference?”

“I thought you’d already figured that out.”

*silence*

“Michael, Brian’s a bit . . . fragile right now. I think the wedding ceremony is going to be more than enough of a trial.”

“Sounds like he’s going to jail.”

 _And he’s not the only one_ , Justin had thought.

“Fine. You’re the best man, and you can do what you want. I’ll make sure he gets there, and I’ll do my best to make sure he doesn’t freak out and has fun, but . . .”

“But what?”

“But I have a bad feeling about all of this.”

“Don’t worry, everything will be fine. Plus, you’ll be there so he won’t be able to go _too_ crazy.”

“Right, because I’m not his fiancé, I’m his babysitter.”

“Well, I’ve been babysitting him for years. It’s your turn now. I’m officially handing over the Brian Kinney Operating Manual to you.”

Justin had smiled at him weakly. _But the manual’s out-of-date,_ he’d wanted to say. _There needs to be a whole new version – the “Just Brian” Handbook._

 

“Just Brian” was a difficult man. Not that “Brian Kinney” hadn’t also been difficult, but at least “Brian Kinney,” despite all the seeming chaos that surrounded him, had been predictable, and Justin had been on to him. “Just Brian” was moody, and the campaign for Remsen’s new hard-on pill seemed to be exacerbating the situation. “Just Brian” was coming home and going straight to bed after dinner – and not because he wanted to fuck. He rarely wanted to fuck these days.

They’d started fighting. Not that Justin considered that an inherently bad thing, but it was unnerving, given how close they were to the wedding. “Just Brian” was a sulker. “Just Brian” was passive aggressive (instead of simply aggressive like “Brian Kinney” had been). “Just Brian” didn’t self-medicate himself into a state of equilibrium. And “Just Brian” sometimes cried, which was nothing short of terrifying. 

“Just Brian” also capitulated. There was a lot of throwing-up-of -hands and “Fine, if that’s what you want, then fine.” There was even bleak resignation and, like Michael had noticed, constant references to “inevitability.” 

“What the fuck? Are we going to the altar or the grave?” Justin asked one night. When "Just Brian" didn’t reply, he felt a rush of pain, which was almost instantly countered by a greater wave of relief. Maybe, just maybe, Brian would be the one to break the engagement, and Justin wouldn’t have to break his heart if he managed to grow the balls to break it himself.

The relief was short-lived.

“Just Brian” sighed. “Just Brian” scrubbed his face with his hands. “Just Brian” sagged with weariness against a beam. Then “Just Brian” stood up straight, looked at Justin with an expression of alarm and had a miniature panic attack.

“Fuck, fuck, _fuck_! Is that how I’m making you feel?? Fuck, I’m so sorry, Justin!” He moved so quickly to take Justin in his arms that Justin dropped the spoon he was using to stir the boiling pot of spaghetti. “Jesus,” he said, squeezing the life out of Justin like toothpaste from a tube. “I can’t believe you’d think that! God, I’m such a fucking asshole! Forgive me. _Of course_ , I don’t feel like I’m going to the grave! I’ve never been happier. We’re together; we’re moving to a beautiful home. Fuck, I don’t know . . . I’m so sorry.”

_Whatever happened to “no apologies, no regrets?_

Justin was going to ask, but “Just Brian” seemed so genuinely distraught. And why invoke the ghost of “Brian Kinney”? What good could that possibly do?

“Just Brian” looked at him with an expression of misery on his face. “I’m trying, Justin,” he said. “Don’t hold one or two slips now and then against me – against us.”

Justin pulled back so he could see Brian’s face. “Are you sure they’re not Freudian slips?” he asked, his voice soft and not condemnatory. _Please,_ he thought. _Talk to me. We need to talk about this!_

“Just Brian” looked pained. “This isn’t always easy,” he said.

“That’s because it’s not you,” Justin replied. He didn’t try to hide the note of desperation in his voice.

“Just Brian’s” eyes flashed angrily.

“What’s ‘not me?’” he asked. “Wanting to make you happy? Wanting to be good partner? Wanting to have a real relationship?”

Justin saw the opening. He felt the too-long-unspoken words form on his tongue. He took a deep breath . . .

. . . and that’s when Michael and Hunter clanged through the door.

“Hope we’re not interrupting anything,” Michael said chirpily.

“Just Brian” and Justin merely turned their heads and looked at him with twin expressions of irritation, which Michael either couldn’t interpret or just flat-out ignored.

“I just bought the newest _Spiderman_ ,” he said. “Thought you guys might want to watch it with us. I brought popcorn. Lots of salt and butter, just how you like it, Brian.”

He held up a greasy, brown paper shopping bag.

“Just Brian” and Justin sighed resignedly. 

“That’s how I _used_ to like it, Mikey. Back when I was sixteen.”

Hunter snorted, but Mikey’s expression didn’t even flicker.

“Remember how we used to smuggle a garbage bag of popcorn into the movie theater?” He laughed.

Justin couldn’t help chuckling. Jesus, Michael was so determined to remind Brian of who he used to be – and not even just “Brian Kinney.” Sometimes it was “High School Brian.’” Thank God, Daphne was able to roll with the times and the changes in her best friend. Michael was stuck in 1985.

“Just Brian” sighed. “You guys have fun. I’m going to bed.” 

The bathroom door shut. Michael turned an expression of chagrin on Justin.

“I told you so,” Justin said. “And you’re expecting me to get him to go to Woody’s tomorrow night??”

 

“Just Brian” was already home when Justin got back from hanging out with Daphne (his version of a stag party). He’d looked over “Just Brian’s” shoulder to see what he was working on.

Holy fucking shit.

It was the ad for Remsen’s version of Viagra featuring two, country-club oldsters lounging contentedly in front of a cozy fire.

What the fuck??

“Rekindle,” “Just Brian” had said. “Not bad, huh? Little play on words. Mirrors the fire. What do you think?”

_I think you’ve finally lost your mind, that’s what I think._

“It’s not edgy. It’s not funny,” Justin replied. “It’s not sexy.”

“Just Brian” stood up with a sigh. “Haven’t you heard? Sex is out.” His voice was more weary than rueful.

Justin reached for his groin and slid his hand between his legs. “Who told you that?” 

“Just Brian” moved away. It’d been Justin’s turn to sigh.

_We’re getting married the day after tomorrow, Brian _, he wanted to say. _You’re miserable about the fact, and so am I. Do you really believe a ring on your finger is going to change things? When will all of this have gone so far that you break? . . .___

__And then it occurred to him._ _

___Maybe the stag party wasn’t such a bad idea after all . . . maybe it would be The Last Straw._ _ _

__“Get on your sluttiest club clothes and bring lots of drugs because we’re going out,” Justin said, his voice buoyant. “Just Brian” gave him the raised eyebrow look. He was clearly trying to figure out what was going on and whether or not it was some kind of trap._ _

__“Just Brian” had cleared his throat. “I was thinking we’d spend a nice, quiet evening at home,” he said. The suggestion sounded hostile._ _

__Remsen. Marriage. Sex-is-out. Quiet evenings at home cuddling in front of a fire._ _

__When “Just Brian” emerged from the bedroom, his outfit hadn’t been slutty. “Just Brian” apparently didn’t do slutty. It was apparently one of the many things “Just Brian” had unilaterally eschewed in the name of “love.”_ _

__

__“It’s the end of your life as you know it,” Michael said in answer to Brian’s “what the fuck is this?” when he and Justin walked through the door of Woody’s and into the midst of a crowd._ _

__“Your final appearance,” Ben added._ _

__Everything went perfectly. Justin could’ve hugged Michael and spun him around. He grinned from ear to ear the whole evening._ _

__“See, I told you,” Michael whispered in his ear. “He’s having fun.”_ _

__Justin had to bite his lip to keep from laughing because poor Michael could be so dense sometimes. Far from looking like he was having fun, “Just Brian” looked like he wanted to run screaming for the door and keep running until he disappeared into the horizon. His expression was pained, his body stiff . . . and, oh God! The stripper-slash-hustler was perfect! Buff, hot and waxed to flawless smoothness, not to mention the sizable cock in a sparkly G-string that he waggled in Brian’s face – a face that looked as hungry as a starving wolf’s._ _

__“Go on!” Justin urged him when “Just Brian” baulked at the man’s invitation._ _

__But “Just Brian” didn't. He ceded his prize to Emmett even though his reluctance – and bitterness – was clear. He raised his hand and silenced the cheering crowd._ _

__“The prisoner respectfully chooses not to partake of his last meal,” he said. “Instead he will be led to the gallows a hungry, but happy man.”_ _

__Gallows._ _

__There. He’d said it. He might as well have called Justin his “ball and chain.”*_ _

__Then Justin slathered the icing on the cake. “Come on. Have a little fun,” he said, and then added the coup de grace. “You have my permission.”_ _

__Permission._ _

__It was tantamount to full-on provocation. A taunt that would’ve sent “Brian Kinney” through the motherfucking roof!_ _

__Permission?! Brian Kinney didn't need to ask for permission from _anyone_ – certainly when it came to fucking!_ _

__Justin knew in that moment that the wedding would be called off – by both of them._ _

__Their conversation the following evening proved him right._ _

__

__In the afternoon of the day they were going to announce that the wedding was off, Justin drove out to Weirton, West Virginia, to say good-bye to Britin._ _

__It wasn’t hard although it was harder than he’d expected. As much as he disliked the house, it was still a symbol of their now-discarded dream. Not that Justin was certain “Just Brian” would sell Britin after Justin left – who knew? Maybe he’d keep it as a summer home? But no. Justin couldn’t imagine it. As soon as he left, Brian would surely put the house on the market – and the horse and probably even the SUV. Thank God, the loft hadn’t sold._ _

__Justin strolled from room to room. Not only had he never liked the house, he’d never thought the house liked him either. Its chilly silence seemed to hide secrets that maybe it’d told Brian but would never tell him. After Justin left, would “Just Brian” find solace here? It was hard to imagine, especially since every inch of it had been a gift to the man who’d left him._ _

___It’s for my prince_._ _

__Early on, probably within the first couple of weeks after they’d met, “Brian Kinney” had mocked Justin when Justin said he needed him._ _

___Where did you learn to talk like that? Some teenage drama?_ _ _

__How would “Brian Kinney” have reacted if he’d been told that less than five years later, he’d be talking about “palaces” and “princes”?_ _

__He climbed the stairs and walked to the master bedroom. They were never going to sleep there; they were never going to make love there or even fuck (assuming “Just Brian” fucked). Justin was glad. He was going to have to leave memories behind him like Hansel and Gretel’s breadcrumbs or foot prints in new snow. They’d be everywhere, confronting “Just Brian” at every turn and forcing him to make countless decisions as to which memories to keep and which to drown like unwanted kittens. They’d created only one real memory in Britin. A momentous one to be sure, but not unforgettable. Not like the memory of the time they'd first made love after the bashing. Not like the times they sat around on the floor in the loft getting stoned, laughing and regaling each other with pointless stories, often forgetting their narratives halfway through. Not the times they fucked for hours in every manner and position possible on Brian’s oceanic bed._ _

__Britin wouldn’t be _too_ hard for “Just Brian” to sell, but what about the loft? How far was he going to go to excise Justin from his future? The thought that he might go far indeed broke Justin’s heart, but it also comforted him. The fewer memories, the lesser the pain, right?_ _

__He went into the bathroom and pulled back the sheet covering the mirror. “Right?” he asked it, but the mirror, being an inanimate object, did not answer back._ _

__

__“How do you think they’ll react?” Justin asked as he was drying off. “Just Brian” was shaving._ _

__“They’ll be shocked,” he said, rinsing the whiskers from his razor in the sink. “Some may even be surprised. Others will say they’d bet all along we’d never go through with it.”_ _

__“What’s the difference between ‘shocked’ and ‘surprised’?” Justin asked, joining Brian at the sink._ _

__“The difference is that ‘shocked’ is what happens in the precise moment that something occurs, but surprised is a word encompassing a period of time – long or short. Lindsay, for instance, will be both shocked and surprised . . . probably Deb as well. And Ted. The others will be merely shocked, and it’ll be the hardest for them.” “Just Brian” stopped talking for a moment while he shaved his throat. “But they’ll get over it once they realize it’s merely the wedding that’s off and not us.”_ _

__Justin swallowed. When should the revelation come? Before the announcement to their friends or after? Which would be less cruel – not only to Brian, but to everyone?_ _

__He watched “Just Brian” dab his face dry and apply lotion. He watched “Just Brian” tilt his head back in search of an overlooked nose hair. He watched “Just Brian” floss his teeth and brush them. He watched “Just Brian” put on deodorant and pat his cheeks with a hint of cologne. He watched “Just Brian” trim and file and buff his nails. He watched “Just Brian” dry and style his hair._ _

__No, he would not tell “Just Brian” before the dinner. But he would tell him afterward. That night. All the several versions of “Brian” should know that as soon as he’d found a place to live, Justin was going to leave for New York._ _

__With no intention of returning._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *This detail is important from a behind-the-scenes kind of way: The original script had Brian explicitly calling Justin "a ball and chain." Apparently, Gale nixed it, thinking it was overly harsh and that it didn't make sense considering the immediately preceding B/J scene (the fitting room scene) in which Brian is so clearly in love with Justin and wants to marry him. The shift in tone was too dramatic in Gale's opinion, so the writers "watered it down" with the "gallows" reference.
> 
> I don't have the interview at the tip of my fingers. I'll try to find it and post the link. I found it very interesting.


End file.
